


Change

by orphan_account



Series: Change [1]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Cannibalism, Genital Mutilation, M/M, Major Character Death(s), Misogyny, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex, Torture, Trans!Waylon, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-04-05 03:19:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 59,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4163703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There had to be a way out. There was always a way out. </p><p>Unless there wasn’t this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Five More Minutes...

Waylon was feeling particularly shitty when he woke up.

He’d felt shitty all damn day, but now, it was even worse.

He took a mental assessment of everything that was okay: He wasn’t dead, evidenced by waking up. He was skeptical of that one until he realized a. he was breathing, b. he was still in pain, and c. death couldn’t possibly smell so bad. Waylon wasn’t exactly a religious man, but he’d imagined either he’d be roasting alive in Hell or living it up in heaven, or else simply not existing.

Unfortunately, he was still existing. Which meant, in order to continue that miserable existence, he’d have to get up. 

He didn’t want to. It was a lot easier to just lie there on the floor and pretend the outside world didn’t exist. If he laid there long enough, perhaps someone else would solve all his problems.

This was incredibly wishful thinking, and he knew it, but he was reluctant to get up and continue the hellish journey he’d been forced to partake in just to survive. He didn’t care about exposing Murkoff anymore- he just wanted to survive now, to get back to Lisa. 

Back to the list of things that were okay: He wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t thirsty. Other than scrapes and bruises all around his battered body, he was uninjured. He wasn’t completely mentally demolished. He was in a relatively safe place, seeing as he hadn’t woken up dead.

He flipped onto his back and sat up.

Where was he?

He remembered needing to sleep. Finding an office. Barricading it, hiding under a desk, sleeping there.

And now he was here.

It was a windowed room, full of sewing machines, that much he could tell from just a glance. 

The room was darkened, the windows casting very meager light from behind tattered curtains. There was either an artificial light out the window, or a full moon, judging by the light that leaked through glass and fabric. 

There was a stairwell, and his first instinct was to climb up it, except a glance with the night vision on his camera revealed a wooden board over it. Waylon dashed over to it, pushing against the wood, trying to get out that way.

Something heavy was pressing down on it, and Waylon knew there was no way in hell he was going to manage to lift that. He sat dejectedly at the foot of the stair, too apprehensive to leave the room full of relative safety. Who knew what kind of thing lurked beyond that corner? He wasn’t eager to run into the big fucking tank of a human being, or those two caveman-looking twins, or the cannibal wielding a saw, or anyone, really. And if he did, what could he do but hide? There wasn’t any escape in this room, and hiding under a table wouldn’t deter them. None of them were stupid- there was no way he’d get out of there. 

So, then. What did he do?

Waylon let himself rest a while longer, sitting, letting people who may or may not exist find the time to clear themselves out of the next room.

He was never good at judging time. Never had been. It could’ve been ten minutes, or an hour.

He stood up, took a deep breath, and started walking.

What he saw next, as he turned past a thin sheet and into another room, immediately had him ducking back in an attempt to shield himself from what lay beyond. He’d seen only a glimpse, but his hiding maneuver, while quick, wasn’t fast enough to burn out the gruesome scene he’d witnessed just around the corner. 

It was an image that was hard to piece together, that only sparkled into clarity when he thought about specific parts. The sliced-up and sliced-open breasts, stuffed with- well, he didn’t know what. The severed head, placed at mauled and mutilated genitals. The corpse posed next to the one on the bed, squeezing their hand as he… she… they went through a sickening, nauseating, simply wrong sort of birth. 

Waylon, as he was struggling to rid the image from his head, was interrupted from his hasty thoughts of “Oh Christ please tell me I was wrong, please tell me I didn’t see what I just saw” by an intrusive song that wiggled its way through his mental protests. 

“I want a girl…” Old-timey, with the distinctive auditory quality that marked it as such, that Waylon had never been able to pin down. Something about the clarity of the singer’s voice. He tried to focus, but found he rather liked thinking about old music than the terrible gore just beyond the relative safety of the stairs and sewing stations. 

He took a deep, steadying breath. In order to get out, he had to keep going. He had to keep moving, or die. The longer he lingered, the weaker he would get; other than questionably colored water he’d thirstily slurped from taps whenever he managed it, he was running on an empty stomach. 

He averted his eyes as he walked past, hugging the wall and keeping his head turned, wanting to keep his eyes shut but not daring, lest there be another Variant he needed to run from close by.

There was a door to his left, after that horrid room, and he gently jiggled the handle- locked. But through a pane of glass in it, he could see the words “Welcome home” written in black letters. He couldn’t help but feel less welcome with the message, and he cautiously, slowly moved on. He didn’t know how long it’d been since those words were written, but he guessed that it was too near to be comfortable. 

He moved along slowly, shivers creeping up his spine. He’d been in plenty of old, decrepit places, but this place practically leaked sadness and lack of life. Had he been feeling more inventive, he could’ve imagined people working at these sewing machines, humming delightedly as they made clothing, or whatever these sewing machines had been used for. Ah, but this was Murkoff’s facility. Those imaginings of his had never been reality, even before all the rot and dreariness had set in. Likely it was just for idle crafts, or, God forbid, Murkoff’s way of being cheap, forcing people down here to make uniforms or whatever. It wouldn’t surprise him, if they used patients as a labor force- it wasn’t like they had any respect for them, after all. 

He looked left, looked right, seeing nothing but more sewing machines and dark, likely reinforced windows, and feeling the dark, depressing atmosphere of the room sink into his psyche. He took a couple more steps into the room, seeing nothing but sewing machines and various furniture. He looked into the hazy darkness through the grainy night-vision on his camera, where the world got as colorful as black and gray-green, occasionally white if he were in a bright enough space. It was the only place he could see green- everything else was brown, white, black, or, God forbid, red. So much red.

He eventually stopped stepping forward into an unknowing black void, questioning his sanity and wondering if this room would simply go on forever, and found a wall. He turned, finding some security in having his back against a wall, and looked around, trying to see if he could spot a door, a gap in the wall, a gaping window, something, from where he currently was. He wondered for a moment, fighting a surge of panic, if the doors he’d passed were the only ways out.

No. There had to be a way out. There was always a way out. 

Unless there wasn’t this time.

He pushed away that nagging thought, slowly moving to the left of the room, following the wall and feeling his fingers tickle as he dragged them against it as reassurance that there was definitely a wall there. Eventually, oh, eventually, he came upon a door. He moved towards it quickly, eagerly. Christ, maybe he’d get lucky and this wouldn’t be locked. He focused all his attention on the doorknob, hardly daring to breathe in his apprehension and anticipation, removing his camcorder from his vision. He managed to not yell in frustration and disappointment when the door didn’t open after a firm handle-turning. This meant he would have to try even harder to get the already locked doors unlocked- breaking the glass panes built into the doors, trying to break them down.

He let out a strangled gasp and jumped back when he lifted his camcorder.

A man, who previously hadn’t been in the glass, was now there. He looked distinctly unhuman, with a scabbing rash devouring the right half of his face, his pupils and teeth glaringly bright in the light of Waylon’s camera. Waylon instantly noticed the man’s dress and build- his shoulders were broad, his chin defined and jaw square, certainly looking physically capable of throwing his weight around, and he was certainly taller than Waylon. He wore a patched-together vest, what looked to be a dress shirt, and bowtie. The patient had his hair slicked backward, in what looked like an attempt to look at least a little refined.

One large hand, covered with a fingerless glove, was pressed against the glass of the door. There was a large, manic grin on the patient’s face. The patient’s horrible grin widened as he boldly and delightedly declared, “Darling!”

The touch on the door lingered lovingly as the man behind the door moved, heading for the ones that’d been locked. Panic gripped Waylon, and he did what’d become a second nature: assessed the room for the spot that would be the best to run from, the best to hide in, and the closest to his new exit point. 

Exit point. The words made his heart flutter with hope. If this patient was going to get in the room, he had to open one of the doors. And that was where Waylon would make his escape.


	2. A Hunter Needs a Huntress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Then die.”
> 
> He closed the thin gate and stepped back, punching a button and feeling bitterness surge in his heart. If she didn’t want him, she could become a greasy red smear on the top of the elevator, not even given the chance to be strung up with the other whores. He would watch, see the fear and pain in her eyes, the defiance that made her refuse to love him. Just thinking about it made him grow bitterer, made his hatred and self-pity breed inside his chest, multiplying like the whores strewn about the asylum. There always seemed to be more of them, and this new darling was no different than them, with their swinish, disgusting hatred of him and rejection of his honest love.
> 
> He peered down the elevator shaft, then noticed something: 
> 
> She was gone.

His darling was hiding somewhere.

Why she’d chosen to hide from him was mystifying, but it spoke to her wits and quick thinking, as well as natural distrust. The distrust of him would be weeded out, maybe not immediately; he’d seen himself in mirrors, and while he was not too bad of a looker, he could see why she would fear him based on appearance alone.

“Did I frighten you?” He called to her, looking around the gloom. The window only cast so much light- it was difficult to see much of anything at all towards the back of the room. “I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t mean to.” He moved closer into the room- she wasn’t by the door anymore, and he wanted to kick himself for startling her like that, but it just meant he had to try harder when looking for her. He got to his hands and knees, checking under one of the tables with a grunt. No, not here. Well, all that meant was he would have to check every single possible hiding spot in the room. He was used to being thorough, though- a cursory glance never got him new women, not anymore, not after he’d cleared out most of the sluts already lurking in his halls.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” Eddie asked the open room, and by extension, his hiding bride. “I know I’ve seen your face.” And he had, hadn’t he? It was familiar. The dusty blond, cropped short (it would grow with time) the shape of her nose and eyes, the stormy gray disks bright with shock and fear both times they’d met, her jaw slightly loosened and twisted downward in an expression of terror, thin lips brought up when she shallowly swallowed.

He wondered how she’d looked with those eyes and brows soft, mouth upturned with teeth just barely showing underneath her lips, laughing gently, then hiding her mouth with her hand modestly. She wouldn’t be laughing at Eddie, no, but at something Eddie had said just to make her laugh, to see how pretty she was when she chuckled. “Maybe… Just before I woke up. Though it seems like a dream now, being here with you.”

Either he heard a squeak, or his ears were playing tricks on him. And he trusted his ears. His darling was still here, and he could practically hear his heart beat for her. She was here- testing his dedication, no doubt, by making him hunt for her, and he chuckled softly to himself. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.” He swore he could hear her breathing closeby, harsh and panicked. He steadied his own breath, which was shaky with excitement and anticipation.

“I could fill that emptiness inside you,” He continued lightly- he knew she had it, he definitely did, and it was the emptiness that tied them together- “You could make me whole.”

And then she ran. She got up, completely away from where Eddie was expecting her to be- in a dark corner that he had been slowly and methodically working his way towards, although on the left rather than on the right- and fled.

“Darling, wait! Let me love you!” Eddie called after her, pushing himself into motion. She did not heed his words, and instead flitted into the hall, sprinting like her life depended on it. While he did love a good chase, the urgency of her movement concerned him. She turned her head, something in her hand- was that a camera?- to look back at him, without stopping her running. She moved quickly, and she was smaller and nimbler than Eddie- she moved faster, ran faster, although Eddie did his best. She had no idea where she was going- she hadn’t been haunting these rooms as long as he had, and he knew where to go, and had keys.

When Eddie was close to catching up, she was pushing aside one of those metal cabinets loaded with junk, that Eddie used to block off some of the doors. “Darling, please, wait-”

She gasped and darted through the door, slamming it behind her, continuing her frantic sprint. Eddie fumbled with the door for a moment, cursing himself for being so damn clumsy, then flung it open again. “Darling! Where are you!?” He called to her. 

She didn’t call back to him, and frustration bubbled in his chest, a wave of anger and annoyance threatening to overtake him. He refrained from the “whore!” and “slut!” that his temper nearly made him shout.

There were tense moments, where he thought she had gone for good, but a sound alerted him. A heavy grunt, then a few seconds later, the scrape of metal. If not his darling, a whore he needed to clear out. He unlocked and opened the door to the room, jumping the table and grinning delightedly when he saw his beloved shoving at another one of those junk-metal cases. Her face was grim with determination, jaw set, a fiery look in her eye that masked her fear; Eddie had never been more attracted to a woman in his life. 

If it hadn’t been for her vulgarity-

No. Think of that later, for now, what mattered was the chase. She scrambled through the door, slamming it shut nearly on Eddie’s nose, which made him growl as he re-opened it. 

It was then, with cold apprehension, he realized where she was headed.

The elevator. 

“Darling, darling, please, wait!”

He swiped out for her blindly, trying to grab her by the back of her patient’s uniform, but she was too far ahead. She took a single glance at Eddie, at the ladder, and Eddie noted the worry and fear in the line of her jaw, in her eyes, and he almost thought she’d forsake the elevator for him, but she jumped across, giving a breathless “oomph” as she lost the air in her lungs from the impact.

“Darling, darling, no-!”

She scrambled, blindly, as the ladder began to tip, and the rungs snapped off their base, as there was nothing to support her feet, and with a desperate, terrified scream, she plummeted to the bottom of the elevator shaft. 

Eddie’s blood ran cold when he heard her scream again. 

She lay on top of the elevator, staring in open disbelief and shock at the state of her leg. A hunk of material- metal or wood, Eddie couldn’t tell from this distance- was buried in her ankle, running all the way through it, and he wanted to shout when she pulled it out and let out a strangled moan of agony. Now she could bleed out if Eddie didn’t get to her! 

“Oh, God. Oh, God, are you okay? Tell me you’re okay! I hate to think of you suffering without me!” He shouted down to her. She didn’t move or speak, only stared in blank shock at her leg.

“Why would you do something like that to yourself?” Eddie could hear the raw pain in his own voice, and it did, it did hurt. She had considered her options, and decided that plunging down to what could have easily been her death was a safer choice than returning to Eddie’s arms. Something black and bitter clutched the Groom’s heart, and he squared his shoulders, glaring down at her. His voice took on a sharper edge. “You’d rather… Rather die, than be with me?”

She could hear the malice in his voice, and looked up at him with terror-stricken eyes, wild and afraid like a newly caught rabbit. 

“Then die.”

He closed the thin gate and stepped back, punching a button and feeling bitterness surge in his heart. If she didn’t want him, she could become a greasy red smear on the top of the elevator, not even given the chance to be strung up with the other whores. He would watch, see the fear and pain in her eyes, the defiance that made her refuse to love him. Just thinking about it made him grow bitterer, made his hatred and self-pity breed inside his chest, multiplying like the whores strewn about the asylum. There always seemed to be more of them, and this new darling was no different than them, with their swinish, disgusting hatred of him and rejection of his honest love.

He peered down the elevator shaft, then noticed something: 

She was gone. 

“What have you…?” It suddenly came to him, like a slap in the head. He chuckled at her cleverness- He’d been too quick in assuming her. She was clever, clever enough to avoid her own death and make her way towards him. “Then we continue.”

He made his way down to her, humming under his breath. All the doors down here were locked- and he made sure to lock the one he came through behind him. He’d learned from that mistake before. She would have to hide, and Eddie would seek- but there were only so many places she could go before he caught her. 

“Hmm. Close. I can…” He gradually approached the hiding place he knew she’d be. He could hear her pained breathing, feel the agony radiating off her from walking on her self-damaged leg. Well. Her injured leg was her punishment for running, although Eddie was not cruel. He would care for her wounded leg as he would care for the rest of her. Carefully, and with love. “The smell of my love’s arbor… Darling, you can’t hide from me.”

Her face paled through the broken slits of the locker, and before she could push it open, tangle with Eddie, he locked it. Her palms slapped against the metal, and she wiggled inside, wordlessly shouting. Eddie shook his head, sighing to himself softly, as he tipped the locker down gently, so the metal back lay on the ground. He nudged the locker with his foot, getting her attention, and pulled the knife from his pocket, letting it glint brightly, a silent warning. 

She quieted quickly. 

Eddie kneeled over the locker- and by extension, her- tilting his head as he looked into her eyes. Her pupils were small, tiny little black dots swimming in a deep pool of thunderstorm gray, brows reaching for her hairline, her lips tight and pulled inward with fear, both gravity and terror pressing her against the bottom of the locker. He pressed a comforting hand over the slits- yes, it was probably scary to be trapped somewhere, but he’d let her out once he knew she wouldn’t run from him. 

He felt a brief twinge of guilt, hoping she wasn’t claustrophobic- if she was, she would just have to bear it, for Eddie’s sake. 

“Here we go, darling.” Eddie rose, dragging the locker after him as he walked. “I’ve been a little vulgar, I know. And I wanted to say, I am sorry. I just- you know how a man gets, when he wants to know a woman. But, after the ceremony, when I’ve made an honest woman of you, I’ll be a different man.”

His bride-to-be let out a muffled whimper, and Eddie felt another flicker of regret for inflicting this on his love. But he tried to be practical. She was wounded- she shouldn’t be walking, anyway. This was all for her own good. 

“I want a family.” He continued, “A legacy. To be the father I never had. I’ll never let anything happen to our children. Not like…”

Acid burned the back of his throat, pain and rage burned the front of his heart. He clenched his fists, closed his eyes, swallowing the memories and anger that wanted to tear him down from the inside out. They were gone. He was here, with his bride, and they would never be a bother to him, or his children. 

Finally to his workshop- where he did his most delicate, honest works. Dressmaking was a careful art, but this required all his attention. This required intimate knowledge of the flesh, a definite physical effort, and patience, the ability to put up with whores and sluts who denied his affections. Dressmaking was a breeze, in comparison, although with the sewing and planning, there wasn’t much difference between his two hobbies, sans flesh being the one mapped and stitched rather than fabric. 

“You’ll have to wait here. I know you’re just as eager as I am to consummate our love. But…” Eddie’s touch lingered on the locker, in what he hoped he hoped his darling would find as sweet. “Try to enjoy the anticipation.”

He moved, keeping a wary eye on the locker, lest his wily bride attempt to break free and run from him again. He’d enjoyed the first chase, but wasn’t keen on a second. “Here, darling.” He said, returning to the locker with one of the last canisters of sleeping gas. He sprayed, and his darling coughed haggardly, but eventually her gray eyes fluttered shut and she went limp and quiet. 

Time to tend to the other whores. 

He went out hunting for a short while, returning with two girls that he intended to practice on for his bride’s eventual cut. It was a sad, painful necessity, but he would try his hardest to fix her properly. He bound those two, intending to play with the one he’d been keeping. They struggled nearby, howling and yowling, screaming to be released. 

Most of the first whore's head was scabbed over in ugly red, making their brown eyes almost unseeable amongst all the massive sores. Eddie knew he had a similar affliction, but not to the degree that this creature did. They were misshapen. Broken. Not worthy bridal material, too ugly to even consider a candidate.

But she did serve her purpose as a learning tool.

She ultimately died, of course, unrelated to the injuries to her anatomy- he’d slit her throat, confident he’d learned all he needed to. 

Besides, he’d kept the one before this alive, and was still conscious, somewhere around here. He’d let her loose, wandering these halls- as to what she got up to, he had no idea. If he came across her, he’d kill her, but for now, he’d just heard her mumble and weep softly in the walls once and a while. He didn’t chase as a reward for living through his surgery.

He went out hunting for more whores, as well as food- his darling wasn’t acclimated towards flesh, and he didn’t like it, either. He’d tried it once or twice, but ultimately decided it was too disgusting to continue eating. He was no Manera. He gathered up food and water from the kitchen, as well as scrambling around for any medical supplies he could get his hands on. His darling’s leg would need tender care, lest it be infected, so he journeyed as far as he dared to retrieve bottles of painkillers and anti-inflammatory drugs from offices and staff rooms.

By the time he returned, the other whores were getting antsy, and he worried they would wake his darling. He bore the “sick fucks” and the berating snarls from one of them, and the soft pleas from the other as he checked on his dearest. He looked at her hands- both were wrapped in what looked to be gauze, like a fighter’s. This place was coarse and rough, so he could understand it- she spared her delicate little palms the grit of this place. The sole of her foot- particularly the arch of her heel- was also wrapped, to help the delicate bottoms run around without getting scratched or scraped. Again, Eddie admired the cleverness of his wife.

He kneeled, looking at her leg. Infection hadn’t set in yet, and he hoped to nip that problem at the bud. He tightly wrapped her ankle, intending to care for it properly once the other whores had been taken care of and strung up. 

He closed the locker gently, locking it again, and turned to the struggling, fighting whore. 

“You sick fuck- you sick fuck! I’m not going to be one of your fucking experiments, you filthy ra-” 

Eddie, quite calmly, for how enraged he felt at the whore’s comments, punched the patient. Hard. They snarled in response, trying to bite his hand, and Eddie removed it disdainfully. This whore probably had rabies- Christ knows where its ugly tongue had been. He punched them once more, harder, sneering down at them. “Everyone knows you’re an ugly whore, slut. We don’t need you proving it, time and time again.” 

He grabbed the whore by the throat, slamming their head down against the table with swift, hard strikes, until he felt them go limp in his hands. Still breathing- he checked their nose with his fingers, as disgusted as the proximity made him- and untied her, carrying her and dumping her down on the table without the slightest bit of regard. No need for restraints; he welcomed a struggle, now, an excuse to get red on his hands and let out a little bit of the roiling anger in everyone. 

He picked up a knife- his favorite, and started on the chest. Gently teasing the blade between the thin flesh between rib and skin, carving a half-circle on the left half of his body. Blood leaked, but he ignored it. This change was for aesthetic only, so he stuffed whatever was lying on the table beside him into the flap of flesh he’d created, then stitched it all together. It was actually decent, considering the effort hadn’t really been an effort. If he was this good without caring about the person beneath him, his darling would be… Perfect. 

The other half got the same treatment, and that was when he started screaming. 

“Oh, I was wondering where your voice had gone, slut!” Eddie caroled merrily. “You were so quiet after calling me a sick fuck, I almost worried you’d died on me.”

“You goddamn son of a bitch-!” The patient gasped, eyes wide, hardly daring to believe what’d been done to him. Eddie liked that expression, that fear, that anger. It made a swell of something appear in his chest, where violence and hatred bred in a putrid cesspool of rage. It made him want to take the knife and shove it between his ribs, right where he knew the heart was. But he had a job, first. “You horrible fuck- you twisted shit, no one is ever going to love you, you thick-headed bastard! You sniveling son of a bitch!”

The patient didn’t care about death, Eddie knew disdainfully. That was why they continued to spit off insults, like Eddie would care. His bride, oh, his bride, safely tucked in the locker- she loved him. The slut was wrong. The slut was horribly, horribly wrong, and they’d die in shame and agony. 

“The color red often symbolizes love.” Eddie said slowly, languidly. “Let’s see if you love me, whore.”  


He took the man’s vulgar area in hand, disgusted he had to touch it, but knowing it was for the greater good. He held the knife in the other hand, and the patient tried to jerk away, but Eddie smiled and held tight. 

The knife cleaved through the air, singing merrily as it moved, only to cleanly hack off the phallus. Eddie tossed it into a nearby basket, where others like it sat, waiting to be burned when he had time to. The patient let out an unholy, agonizing scream, trying to claw themselves off the table, backwards. Eddie, with a lovely smile, grabbed the patient, pinning them by the chest, and slamming the knife into the stump he’d just created, carving out a hole by twirling the blade on the inside, scraping out flesh easily. “Oh, you’re so red, slut. I guess you do love me.” He cooed, dipping his fingers into the new hole gently, sticky red staining his fingertips. 

The patient was quiet. Quickly. He passed out, blood leaking from his new orifice, from his chest. Eddie calmly shoved him off the table, knowing the blood flowing would be enough for them to die quickly. They’d die unless Eddie decided to staunch the flow- which, he decided quickly, he would not do.

The other whore remained.

They whimpered at Eddie, shrinking in their binds, and he laughed softly at them. Silly whore. Thinking they could escape his bondage… If it hadn’t been for the beautiful woman in the locker, he might’ve considered this one as a bride. They were submissive, without any obvious physical deformity, save for the indecent member between their legs and the masculine physical structure.

“Please, no, no no no-”

“It’ll be over soon.” Eddie consoled them, grabbing them by the uniform that clothed the top half of their body. “I’ll make the cut fast.”

“God-!” The patient choked out. 

“Wait!” A new voice, one Eddie had not heard before. He removed his hand from where it had been clutching the whore’s clothes, and moved towards the locker. Bright, scared gray eyes peered from the broken vent, along with a trembling voice and a pale face. “Stop. Stop, please-”

“So you can speak.” Eddie said gently, wanting to stick his fingers through the slits in the locker and cup her cheek. “And how lovely it is to hear… You and your voice are both so very elusive, darling, I worried I would never hear your lovely words.” 

“Please, just- Stop. I saw what you did to the other patient- don’t-”

“Oh, darling.” Eddie sighed softly, gently tracing the bars of the vent with his palm. “Are you worried that I’m going to replace you with that slut? I won’t, I promise.”

“No- Let him- her- go. You- You don’t need them anymore, right? I’m all you want.” His bride’s lovely voice shook. “I’m- awake now, you don’t need to- to- mutilate them anymore, you have me.”

“Darling, I can’t just let one free.” Eddie frowned, huffing. “They might come back to try and hurt you.”

“Leaving.” The patient interjected, wiggling in his bonds. “I’ll go. Go. Go! Ha! I’ll leave you. Both of you. Never come back, never go back to the Groom. Promise. I’ll stay. Away. Warn others, too! No one will bother you. If you let me go.”

Eddie debated it for a moment, then grabbed a towel from nearby to wipe down his table, taking most of the fresh blood off. Some of it had seeped into the table, unfortunately permanent, and he unlocked the locker his bride had been in for so long. She tried to take a step forward, and immediately yelped when her foot couldn’t bear her weight. Eddie chuckled to himself- how silly of her to try to walk on her injured leg!- and caught her easily. He was overcome with an urge to kiss the fear off her face, to let her know her soon-to-be husband was here to comfort her. 

She was surprisingly docile when Eddie led her to his table, straddling her hips even though at this point in the relationship it was improper. He gently did up her arms with rope- she really wasn’t resisting, she was completely calm. But, of course, unlike the others, she was his pearl, his perfect bride. She knew what had to be done in order to make them a family. 

Still, though, she would need to be relaxed for this, even if she was going to be tied. It would… Hurt, yes, and Eddie would hate to see her suffering. He gently gassed her, watching her squirm and choke when it started working. That was some of the last of it, although it’d gone to good use. He took the camera from her hip- what lovely hips she had!- and set it on a nearby table, making sure it wasn’t recording. 

He started on the zipper of her jumpsuit, and was immediately floored by what he found. 

He traced the thin scars underneath her breasts with his fingers, the healed-over slits so like…

He glanced over at the man he’d toppled off his table, at his stuffed chest. They looked too similar to be a coincidence, but his love’s chest was flat, rather than raised.

Anger surged through him, a fiery coil rippling through his belly. Who else had been here? Who else had his bride let touch her? 

No. No, no. Calm down, Eddie. 

He took a deep breath. Someone had slit her open, but not stuffed her with anything. Why? Why do this, to his darling? As a jab, a tease, at Eddie himself? Or did she have enemies, who did this as a mockery? He could feel a sense of protection grow over him, and he longed to cradle his bride to his chest and tell her it would all be okay. 

He continued with the zipper, until his palm rested over her pubic bone.

He blinked, uncomprehending for a moment. She was flat here, too. Her vulgarity-

He bit his tongue between his teeth gently, and cut away her uniform around her to get a better look at what he thought- and hoped- he was seeing.

His bride didn’t have a vulgarity. No ugly staff to hack off, no dangling wrinkly sac to grab and cut, no bland, waiting flesh to plunge a knife into.

An already soft, working hole. He wanted to touch, just to be sure it was real, but he restrained himself to sliding his hands over her thighs.

She had stubble on her jaw. She was hairy down here, and her chest was flat. What was going on? Why was she so- masculine, but down here, so soft? Again, the urge to touch, but if it was real, then he would be rushing into things before his bride was ready. His bride- oh, his female, female bride. Her breasts were a shame, but he could make it work, and with a little shaving and effort, she could be the woman God intended her to be. 

He slid a hand up her abdomen- it was surprisingly cold, and Eddie felt a deep longing to lie next to her, warm her, budding up amongst his giddiness that he’d found an honest to God woman that didn’t need to hurt in order to turn her into what she was meant to be. 

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself and fight off manic glee, and hacked off her restraints with his knife, leaving her there to peacefully lie. 

He did as his bride-to-be requested before Eddie’s exploration of her, and set free the other patient, who scurried away and melted into the gloom like a particularly whorish shadow.


	3. We Merry Six (Formerly Seven)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abruptly, Thomas spoke. 
> 
> “Johnny. Come with me. We’re going to the Groom’s workshop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of you were expecting nothing but Waylon and Eddie, but... I just really like the concept of minor, unnamed characters scrambling together to survive. Hence, this chapter.

More people than the Groom could ever expect made their residence in his halls.

They had a system, a method, to go undetected, to avoid being caught and diced like a frog in an anatomy class. The weakest lingered at the fringes, the very edges of the Groom’s territory, sometimes timorously daring to peek into other people’s turf, scavenging for food wherever they went. They were gatherers that snatched when it was safe. The second, much smaller part of the group, was made up of scouts. They were the stronger, taller, bigger ones, able to run quickly and put up a physical fight when it became necessary. They scouted ahead for predators- in this instance, the Groom- and oftentimes took watch while the weaker patients slept. It was a symbiotic relationship: the weakest gathered food for the strongest, the strongest told them where to gather from and defended the rest of the group if needed. Sure, even together, they couldn’t face the brutish Walker, or even the Twins, but it was better than no group at all. Lone wolves didn’t last long in the Asylum- neither did the lazy or stupid, the unwatchful or the ones with difficulty cooperating in a group. 

Even with the safety in numbers, the Groom was like a goddamn bloodhound when it came to hunting. He worked tirelessly at removing and redecorating anyone he managed to catch in his halls, stringing them up by the feet in the rafters, bodies twisted and mutilated. Even with this, the patients already in his territory didn’t dare move elsewhere, for fear of a worse predator. 

Trager’s territory was wide, his manner casually sadistic- He would prolong the torture, rather than give you a swift death like the Groom. Manera ate men alive, and had the wicked, wicked buzzsaw, but his turf was relatively small. A group of seven hiding patients would be too easy to pick off, and Manera would dine like a goddamn king. The Twins were in service of Father Martin, but they, too, loved to play around with their prey. They were too intelligent to consider edging in, too busy already feeding themselves and Martin’s congregation to allow more. Chris Walker was quick and brutal, ripping off the heads of anyone he came across. He would take down their group of seven in a heartbeat- he was strong enough and big enough to rip off heads like it was nothing. 

The Groom’s territory was large. Huge, even. It had many, many places to hide, even places where seven men could crouch down in relative safety and sleep, when the Groom was preoccupied with another patient, gathering his own food, or designing dresses for his darling. So, naturally, many patients occupied his halls, hiding wherever they could manage. His brand of insane was just that: Insane, but despite his torture being possibly the most humiliating of every option, patients still sheltered themselves on his land.

He caught many. Not all, but many. Those who weren’t caught learned to melt into the shadows when he passed, learned to hide and run, to rely on others for their safety. The only barrier, between the hiding seven and the blade, was made of sheer teamwork and trust. 

One of the scouts returned. He and another had been sent out hours ago, to see if it was safe. The returning scout was one of the strongest the group had mustered. Of the three scouts in the seven, he was likely second place for strength, beaten only by the man he’d gone out with to go explore and hunt for scraps. The scout- Johnny- was visibly shaken. He’d been captured by the Groom, he said, and shushed the remaining fives’ questions as to where the other scout was, how he’d managed to avoid the saw for so long. 

“He died. Rudy’s dead, yes he is, under Gluskin’s knife.” Johnny twitched nervously, threading his fingers together, then undoing it and redoing it again, his eyes glinting with excitement as he babbled. “But, listen up, ya’ll. Listen real close now. He’s got a new wife. An honest-to-God girl, with real bits, that he ain’t need to make himself! I saw it! I saw! I saw!”

“A wife,” Murmured the five scarred, starved patients, breaking into whispered conversations amongst themselves. “A real woman.”

“A wife, a wife, yes indeed!” Johnny crowed. “His new lady plead with the Groom. Plead with him to let me go! And I’m here, I’m here! I’m free! I’m free! We’re all free!” He giggled, stumbling backward until he hit a wall, almost falling over. “He doesn’t need to make new wives no more! No more! No more! He ain’t need to carve us up!”

“So long as he still has his bride.” One of the older patients muttered, his brown eyes cold and white-gray hair dirty and tangled. “When she runs from him, gets free, he’ll take his wrath out on the rest of us. The hunting he’s doing now is leisurely, considering what he’ll start to do when he gets pissed. None of you youngsters were here for when he lost one of his darlings a month ago. When did you think he started hanging everyone from the rafters?”

“So we keep her!” One of the other patients chorused, a one-eyed man with scabs devouring the left half of his face, an ugly disfiguration that continued down his neck and created ugly, ugly blisters on one hand. “We heard the sheep t’wards the wolf, an’ when it runs, we grab the sheep and dump it back where it belongs. A safety net, keepin’ the wolf occupied with the sheep- When it’s got the sheep, it can’t bite us, cause us pain, see?”

“The pain.” Another man moaned, from where he sat in the corner, hunched over and shivering. 

“Y’hear, Thomas? Jimmy knows the pain.” The one-eyed patient grinned. 

Jimmy whimpered from nearby, looking up from where he’d been curled on himself, tugging at his breasts, in a vain hope he’d go back to being flat-chested if he just tore the skin off. “No more.” Was all he mumbled, hunching over once more and staring lifelessly at his bare, naked chest, and pretending the agony between his legs was nothing. 

“No more!” Johhny interjected, giggling. “No more, Jimmy, no more! The Groom has a bride! No more!”

“No more,” The other patients echoed, various shades of relief in their voices. Jimmy even looked up again, dully. 

“We can finally sleep!” The scout sang. “Sleep! The Groom will be distracted by his little wife, little wife. And we will be safe forever, if the whore never slips away!”

“Never,” The patients murmured in response. 

Thomas nodded sagely. “We have to watch her. If she runs, and we catch her, find her, bring her back, we’ll be rewarded by the Groom for returning her. He won’t kill any of our number, if we act as his safety net, as the force keeping his bride in, keeping them together.”

There was a soft smattering of conversation amongst the patients, considering Thomas’s words. The unanimous decision amongst the six remaining was that it would be worth being out in the open, talking to the Groom, if it was for the return of his beloved.

Abruptly, Thomas spoke. 

“Johnny. Come with me. We’re going to the Groom’s workshop.”

“To his workshop?” Came the harsh whispers, while Johnny’s eyes widened in bright, bright fear. 

“What do you want to go there for?” He asked, voice a harsh whisper. “The Groom. Very bad. Very bad! What he did to Rudy, oh, poor Rudy, Rudy-”

“Thomas, you tryin’ to get yerself and Johnny killed? Johnny’s dumb as hell, but he runs fast and he can fight. You go by yourself, but I ain’t lettin’ my best chance at livin’ die, y’hear?” One-eye piped up quickly. “You’re smart, an’ God, you won’t let us forget it, but for Christ’s sake, we need good runners and strong bodies more’n we need smarts right now. We lost Rudy already, we’ll be left with only Boone if Johnny dies, an’ he ain’t much better off than the rest’ve us!” 

“Johnny, I won’t force you, but I am going.” Thomas said slowly. “And Connor, don’t underestimate intelligence.”

Boone moved his gaze from the floor he’d been staring at. “You got a plan, geezer?” He asked, voice rough.

“I might just have one. Do you want to tag along?”

“Since I’m so useless and all, might’s well. Let’s see how everyone handles themselves when Connor’s the smartest one in the damn group.” Boone rose and stretched. “Let’s get movin’, old man. We’ve got a good bit of ground to cover.”


	4. Bleed the Lamb (Not on the Carpet, I Just Got it Clean!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You have something he doesn’t.” The patient leaned forward, almost kissing close, their noses practically touching. With a finger, he tapped the spot just beneath Waylon’s navel, making him shiver violently and draw in his limbs. “You’ve got a babymaker. You don’t even need to be under his knife, you idiot! You can occupy him, distract him, be the sacrificial lamb that spares dozens and dozens of patients. Not a lot of people here still have morality, and anyone would throw you to the wolves in a heartbeat if they knew you could spare them the agony. Bear it. Bear it all, for the sake of the dead and dying, for the dozens- maybe hundreds- of poor fuckers who died in this room, screaming as their dicks were hacked off.”

“Come on.” A withered voice cut into Waylon’s hazy sleep, and he moaned softly, feeling a shiver lance down his spine at a cold hand on his stomach. His bare, bare stomach, which was enough to make him crack open an eye in alarm. He was naked, in this place, where the patients were fucked to all hell and probably hadn’t seen a vagina in years. Judging by the fact that he didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary down south, he still hadn’t been touched, though, which gave a good amount of credit to the Groom’s ability to protect his prey. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

He opened his eyes, and took a good look to his left, where the patient stood over him.

He let out a strangled gasp of “Cannibal!”, as the person touching him strongly resembled Frank Manera, the terrifying cook from the kitchens. The stringy, grayish hair, the gauntness, the menacing figure, despite being so small. Waylon immediately attempted to scramble away, nails digging for purchase on the bloodsoaked table. 

“Dammit, girl, we don’t have much time before the Groom gets back.” The patient snapped impatiently, removing his hand from Waylon’s sternum. “Boone can only distract him for so long.” 

There was distant screaming, of rage and fear, and a sharp bang, of something falling over, then a heavy door slamming. Heavy, furious cursing echoed, then subsided.

Waylon was less occupied with the sounds in the distance, and more on the patient in front of him. Brown eyes. Not green. And he couldn’t quite recall the cannibal wearing a full prison’s uniform, and being almost completely clean of blood. This patient had a couple specks dotting his clothing, but here, that was to be expected. And he seemed almost- lucid. Conscious. Able of thought, able to process. The cannibal had a one-track mind on food, food, and more food.

So. The man before him was a docile prisoner, seeing as Waylon hadn’t been raped, murdered, or injured since the big vest-wearing guy knocked him unconscious. Which meant, for the moment, he was safe.

Waylon sat up, eyes darting to his leg instinctively. It was covered in what looked to be a clean bandage, tinged with pinkish red, and he reached for it, wanting to see the damage. 

The patient next to him grabbed his hands impatiently, giving a surprisingly feral hiss. “The Groom’ll have to re-wrap those if you undo his work, and I swear to God, he’ll saw off your leg if it gets infected.”

Waylon decided not to unwrap the bandage. 

“I’m about to tell you something very, very, important. See him, there? That’s Rudy.” The patient pointed to the corpse on the floor, the one the Groom had mutilated and damaged beyond any kind of sanity. “He was part of our group. Part of the patients who still live in this hellhole. He’s dead. He died in shame and in pain. But you. You can stop this.” His brown eyes stared into Waylon’s gray intently, seriously, with a burning fire behind them that made Waylon want to break his gaze, even if he found himself unable. 

“I know. I know I can, I just have to get Murkoff-”

“Rudy didn’t give a shit about Murkoff, and neither do I. There’s time for anger, and time for survival, and I intend to survive before I die from being mad at the wrong guys. I’ve got five other men who need food, who need safety. Five, that used to be ten, until they were lost to Gluskin. Hung up by their feet like some kind of catch.” The intensity of his voice, of his stare, almost made Waylon cringe. “I have lost friends. I have lost a brother. They all died to him, under his knife, because he tried to make himself a woman. But. You.”

“Me? What about me?” Waylon’s voice grew sharp, defensive, almost shrill. “What do you think I can do? Your- Your Rudy is three inches taller than me, and muscular, and he was still caught and killed!”

“You have something he doesn’t.” The patient leaned forward, almost kissing close, their noses practically touching. With a finger, he tapped the spot just beneath Waylon’s navel, making him shiver violently and draw in his limbs. “You’ve got a babymaker. You don’t even need to be under his knife, you idiot! You can occupy him, distract him, be the sacrificial lamb that spares dozens and dozens of patients. Not a lot of people here still have morality, and anyone would throw you to the wolves in a heartbeat if they knew you could spare them the agony. Bear it. Bear it all, for the sake of the dead and dying, for the dozens- maybe hundreds- of poor fuckers who died in this room, screaming as their dicks were hacked off.”

There was a short silence, in which there was more yelling, even further off. 

The patient took a deep, steadying breath. “I know this is a lot to ask you. A lot. So I brought someone here, who I thought would help you make the right decision. Jimmy. C’mere, please.”

From the corner, pressed against the door, a patient with their eyes shut tight wobbled over. Waylon’s blood froze and his breath hitched when he realized what was wrong.

“He doesn’t want to remember this place. So his eyes are closed.” The gray-haired patient murmured. “But you can see what Gluskin did ‘cause he was trying to make himself a woman.”

Breasts. The clearly, obviously male patient had large breasts, almost mockingly big, with the area beneath his hips sheared and red. A stump, where a cock once was, a slit that Waylon guessed was supposed to be a vagina, and a distinctive lack of balls. Waylon pressed his legs tighter together, gulping. 

Jimmy tilted his head, eyes still shut, and mumbled under his breath. “Oh, God. The blood. The blood.” Then, more urgently, tugging at the older man’s shirt, “Thomas. Thomas, I wanna go home. Where’s Ma?”

“Shh, Jim.” Thomas comforted him, rubbing an arm down his shoulder and steering him towards a corner. “You’re doing good. He can’t hurt you anymore, and he won’t hurt any of us like you were hurt- provided he’s got his bride.” Half-lidded eyes traveled from Jimmy’s pathetic, shaking figure, to Waylon, an obvious jab at the programmer. “With a bride, he doesn’t need to mutilate anyone. To punish men for just bein’ men.”

“No matter what you say, no matter what… What’d you call him? The Groom? No matter what he says either, I am a man.” Waylon piped up defiantly, curling his arms.

“Call yourself what you want. You got a pussy, the Groom wants a pussy.” Thomas snapped in response. “Be a guy with a vagina, I don’t care, but you’ve got what he’s after. Put up with him, for the sake of Jimmy. For the sake of all of us. For the sake of the dead and dying-”

“THOMAS! FINISH IT THE FUCK UP, WE GOTTA GO!” A voice screamed from nearby- Boone, had Thomas said?- “THE GROOM’S TRAPPED IN A ROOM, BUT I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG UNTIL HE GETS OUT! WE GOTTA FUCKING GO NOW, OR WE’LL ALL END UP ON HIS TABLE!”

“Fuck!” The old patient cursed, then whipped his head towards Waylon, a fresh surge of anger and fire behind his brown eyes. “Listen. You bear his love. You bear his heart. If you run from him, we’ll bring you back and leave him to punish you. I don’t need you to be willing to bear whatever he wants to give, I don’t need you to do this out of the goodness of your heart. It’s as simple as this: I want to fucking live, and I want my friends to live, and that means making sacrifices. In this case, that means you.”

“THOMAS!” Boone screeched. “WE GOTTA GO NOW!”

“I’m coming, Christ, Boone! Jimmy, we’re leaving!” He grabbed the mutilated patient by the shoulder, flung open the door, and dashed out with him, slamming the door shut behind them so hard the room seemed to shudder. Before the door closed, Waylon got the image of a dark-skinned man with short, curly black hair- Boone?- but it was closed too quickly to tell.

A few moments later, the other door was flung open, and the Groom marched in, snarling furiously. “Disgusting, ugly sluts- they should all hang!” 

Waylon sat there, in complete and total silence, hardly daring to breathe. He was sitting naked on the table, the only light in the room on him, and it was quite obvious he was there, but he still prayed the Groom would ignore him, nonetheless.

Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. When the Groom was snarling and snapping about the whores that escaped him, his eyes locked on Waylon’s, and the venomous words died on his lips. It was frightening how easily, how quickly, his expression of pure rage and ferocious tongue settled into a relaxed, carefree smile and silvery voice.

“Darling.” He cooed, the word said with so much sweetness that Waylon swore he felt goosebumps jump up his arms. 

“Did any of them touch you, darling?” He practically glided over to Waylon, crushing the programmer’s head against his broad chest in what Waylon suspected was supposed to be an embrace.

“No.” Waylon had no idea why he lied, why he didn’t rat out Thomas and Jimmy and Boone, but he didn’t. Maybe it was because his voice and hands were shaking so badly he was surprised he even managed the little squeak of a word. “I didn’t see anyone…”

“Oh, I’m relieved, darling. I wouldn’t want those ugly sluts to get their hands on you and your purity…” He ran a hand down the curve of Waylon’s thigh, groping possessively, and Waylon shoved his hands against the Groom’s chest, pushing him away.

“Something wrong, darling?”

“Look, I’m not- your darling.” Waylon said, frightened of the psychopath’s reaction to his words but knowing they were necessary. “I just want to get out of here. I have footage, to completely take down Murkoff! To completely demolish the Asylum! We can escape, together!” 

“Why would we want to do that, darling?” The Groom looked confused and concerned, and Waylon inwardly gulped. Confusion could turn into anger pretty quickly if he wasn’t careful- he’s seen it happen first hand with other patients. “We live here, my love- we’ll grow a family here, the best family that’s ever been. Our children will be as beautiful as their mother.” He clasped one of Waylon’s hands in his own and squeezed, in a way that was probably supposed to be comforting, but as it stood, just chilled the programmer to the bone.

Children.

The crazy fucker wanted children.

“Children?” Waylon rasped suddenly. “You want to have- Children, with- You don’t even know my name! I don’t even know your name! I don’t know how old you are, or anything about you, and you want to have kids with me!?”

“My name is Eddie.” He introduced himself warmly, stepping back from Waylon to stare at him with piercing blue eyes, made even more vivid by the shattered blood vessels. “Eddie Gluskin.”

Oh, fuck. 

He knew that name. Waylon shot a look up at Eddie, knowing he probably looked like a spooked horse, and compared that scarred face with the one he’d seen before, with tubes shoved down his throat and eyes wide with terror and fear. Compared the powerful, muscular build hiding beneath formal attire with the strength and size of the patient that took more than two guards to subdue. 

Oh, fuck him. He knew this guy, this Eddie Gluskin. Gluskin had begged Waylon to save him from the Engine the morning Waylon had been downgraded from a programmer to a patient. He’d begged Waylon to save him, and…

Waylon hadn’t. 

Guilt squirmed in him- the programmer was responsible for the horrible scabby rash creeping up Eddie’s face, for the burst blood vessels, and probably for the continuation of his insanity. He’d started up the program for them, been a docile little lapdog for Murkoff, had been fucking over patients for two weeks. Which is why he’d sent the email, trying to make up for every horrible thing he’d done in his brief tenure. 

He’d hoped, morally, it would be enough. But, seeing what Eddie looked like now-

It was not enough. 

“And your name, darling?”

“Waylon.” He rasped softly, abruptly jarred from his thoughts by Eddie’s words. “Waylon Park.”

“Waylon Gluskin.” Eddie mused aloud. “Not too bad-sounding, but your name is so… Masculine.” Eddie’s fingers ran over his middle gently, and Waylon, in response, jerked away. 

“Where’s my clothes? My camera?” Waylon fought a surge of panic and tried to breathe evenly. “I need those. I can’t just- Wander this place naked, and I can’t lose my proof-”

“Your clothes?” Eddie looked bemused. “I burned them. As beautiful as you are, you just can’t make something that garish look good- You’re my bride, and you need to start dressing like it. These lunatics, these whores, they won’t know you’re mine- and that’ll be dangerous. People like Walker, like Manera- darling, unless they know you’re mine, they’ll hurt you.” He gently pet Waylon’s hair, and the programmer fought a shiver of revulsion as the grimy fingers threaded through his blond locks. “I don’t want you hurt, darling, not after I’ve just found you…”

“I want clothes.” Waylon insisted quietly, fighting the urge to gag from the proximity between himself and this psychopath. The room was full of death, of blood, but this maniac reeked even worse. Soured breath, the stench of blood in his clothes, the sweat and what he hoped to God wasn’t piss, they all lingered in Waylon’s nostrils and made him feel quite sick. How long had it been since this guy had taken a goddamn shower? His nose told him never, and he almost believed it.

“Of course, darling! They won’t fit as well as the clothing you’re getting later, because I didn’t know your measurements, but I suspect they’ll do well in a pinch. I’ll be back soon, don’t move.”

The man turned to another section of the room, where he retrieved a faded blue dress that looked as if it had been made right from the curtains on the window. Eddie went back to Waylon, gently giving it to him and beaming softly. Waylon realized, with a slight feeling of apprehension, that he was expected to wear this. He hadn’t worn a dress since he was a little girl, begrudgingly forced by his mother to dress ‘properly’ when attending church.

Of course, that little girl wasn’t Waylon. Not yet, anyway. That little girl had gone along with what her mother said, how God intended to be a woman to be a woman, a man to be a man, and not a woman to be a man or a man to be a woman, even if that woman or that man didn’t feel that what they were was quite right.

When Waylon hesitated, Eddie chipped in. “Come now, darling. You can’t very well be naked out here- I’d hate to see what those whores will do to you, my love.”

It was more than just a damn dress. To Waylon, it was everything. Accepting it, putting it on, being this man’s bride- he would be a woman again, a girl again, even though every fiber of his being screamed out against it, screamed out against being what he’d known, known ever since he was that little girl, that he was not. 

He slipped on the dress.


	5. Cold Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “DARLING!” He barked, jumping off the table with fists clenched and raised. He can see her movements stutter, and as angry as he is, he can see the fear trembling in her bare calves, in her bare arms, in her twitching fingers. Knowing he’s frightening her makes guilt squirm in his belly, but he can’t afford to be soft on her, not even for a second. “We are not done with this conversation. Sit. Now.”
> 
> She’s still for a moment, frozen, half-way between the door and her fiancé. 
> 
> Then she turned, head lowered and shoulders slumped, and walked towards him, still not meeting his eyes. She sat in the chair, scooting it forward. She knew what was expected of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who learned how to make italics? This guy.

“You’re not happy, darling.”

His darling jolted at the sound of his voice, slamming what looked like a bloodstained diary shut. Eddie had longed to read it when he found it on her hideous, bloodstained prison uniform, but he didn’t, and that went the same with the camera he’d found on her, too. He had respect for a lady’s private thoughts, although he was planning on seeing the adventure she’d been on to get to him at some point. Perhaps when she was resting- she slept in frequently, and tired fast. Eddie suspected her leg was bothering her, that its mending was draining her strength. 

Waylon’s head whipped around to see Eddie when he spoke, and he could see the wariness and fear in her eyes. When it did not go away upon sighting her soon-to-be husband, he frowned and drew closer, crossing the room. She’d locked herself in here ten minutes ago, telling Eddie she was busy, and as the minutes ticked on, the Groom grew more and more suspicious of her, until he’d ventured in against her wishes. He felt guilty about disobeying his wife, but he preferred making sure she wasn’t trying to run away or hurt herself. She’d tried to run before, very hard, but was always halted by some obstacle, or a whore running the halls. Eddie was getting desperate in his attempts to keep her here, but recently, they’d died off. 

Now his wife locked herself away, rather than ran from him. He wasn’t sure which one was worse.

Her eyes darted for a moment, and Eddie found himself longing to hear her voice in the silent that stretched out between them. They’d known eachother for a week and a half, and she hardly spoke, save for when Eddie asked her direct questions. Her voice was so soft, so beautiful, but trying to coax words out of her was getting to be a pain. 

“That’s not-” Oh, how Eddie adored her voice. “True.”

Even with his enjoyment of how lovely she sounded, he wasn’t stupid enough to miss how dishonestly it was said. She expects him to believe this, and it baffles him to think she could even attempt to lie this badly. It’s _obvious_ something is bothering her. She’s not happy. Eddie couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her give any signs of happiness but a weak, watery smile that was clearly only there for his benefit and not because of her enjoyment. 

He sat on the edge of the table, next to her. She’d cleared it of the sewing machine and the other various bits of garbage accumulated on the smooth surface, probably needing a space to write on. He looked down at her- she’s pointedly avoiding his eyes, keeping her head down and eyes trained on the face of the journal in front of her. 

“Darling, honestly.” Eddie sighed, wanting very badly to cup her cheek to _make_ her look up at him. “Ladies aren’t supposed to lie. What’s bothering you?” 

Her eyes were shifty. She glanced up at him, then back down at the book. It makes him want to grab the stupid thing and throw it against the wall. There’s that familiar, bubbling rage, that starts in the core of his stomach and works its way up to his throat, sitting there like a heavy stone. He clenched the edge of the desk in his hand, and his fiancée finally moved her gaze from her stupid diary to him. Not his face, no, but his hand. He had a brief flicker of anger- she’d look at his face if he were choking her, fingers tight around her windpipe, watching her grow red. 

He doesn’t choke her, but he’s even closer when she abruptly stood, scooting the chair backwards and using it as a support to rise. She took the diary in hand, and turned for the door, starting to walk out.

Eddie couldn’t _believe_ she has the nerve to simply _walk out on him!_

“DARLING!” He barked, jumping off the table with fists clenched and raised. He can see her movements stutter, and as angry as he is, he can see the fear trembling in her bare calves, in her bare arms, in her twitching fingers. Knowing he’s frightening her makes guilt squirm in his belly, but he can’t afford to be soft on her, not even for a second. “We are not done with this conversation. Sit. Now.”

She’s still for a moment, frozen, half-way between the door and her fiancé. 

Then she turned, head lowered and shoulders slumped, and walked towards him, still not meeting his eyes. She sat in the chair, scooting it forward. She knew what was expected of her.

Eddie waited patiently for her to speak. He can sit here all damn day if he has to, waiting for her to finally divulge what’s on her mind. 

“I’m worried about…” She finally started, and Eddie’s heart leapt. Finally, finally, he would learn what was wrong. He kept his gaze intently focused on her lips, watching them as she spoke. She had nice lips: soft, he knew, from times he’d sneaked kisses just to hear her squeal in surprise. They were thin, as to suggest slight masculinity, but compared to Eddie, or even most of the patients here, they were the closest it got to thick, plump lips, without having them enlargened with a bruise. “… Marriage.”

Eddie can’t help himself. He actually laughed. He was aware of the deepening frown on her face, but he just can’t hold the mirth in. 

“Darling, what is there to worry about?” He asked, trying to regain his seriousness. “I have everything well in hand. Our wedding will be perfect, darling, there’s no need to worry about i-”

“No!” She interjected, so sharply that Eddie could feel himself flinch, his words dying on his lips. There’s a bright flicker of realization in her eyes, of fear, and she rushed ahead with her words- “No- no, I mean-” She looked up at him imploringly, her gray eyes so tender that Eddie can’t help but feel himself swoon. Her eyes were so beautiful… “… Doesn’t… Doesn’t it all seem rushed to you?”

“No.” Eddie deadpanned back, lips twitching when he noticed she visibly flinched. 

“I’ve only known you ten days.” Waylon mumbled. “I just- think it’s too fast.”

“Darling.” Eddie sighed, knowing she’s going to take some more reassuring. “We will know each other _plenty_ after we’re married. And we don’t need to know each other closely. We’re soul mates, darling. Destined, to be together, and that’s so strong a tie we don’t need to know everything about one another.” 

Her expression soured, and Eddie felt his stomach clench in concern and worry. He didn’t like that look on his love’s face, not one little tiny bit. It meant she wasn’t happy, and although he was delighted she was finally willingly talking to him, if it’s to say something whorish, he doesn’t want to hear it. 

“I’m not sure if I’m- Ready, in the same way you are.” His bride’s gaze is away from him once more, and he feels a surge of frustration.

Then anger.

“Darling.” She flinched at his voice. It was stern, bordering furious.

“Are you doubting my love?”

The spark of fear in her eyes is immediate, and it makes Eddie’s chest glow, knowing he can inspire this level of fright with merely a few words. She stood up, blinking at him, and clenched her fists, looking at Eddie again, voice and eyes pleading. “No! No, I’m not! I’m not, I’m not! I know you’re devoted, Eddie, God, I know!” 

He has a plan.

He stood over her, using the inches of height he has on Waylon to look as imposing as physically possible, making his expression impossible to read- some mix of coldness and slackness that should keep his lovely little wife guessing. 

“I’ll just have to _prove_ it to you, won’t I, darling?”

She swallowed. Eddie watched her Adam’s apple bob, keeping his eyes on her throat. She stumbled backward, bumping into the desk with her hip, and stammered slowly, “Eddie?”

“Oh, darling.” Eddie purred softly.

He approached her- for every step he took forward, she took one back, until she was pinned up against the wall. Eddie placed both hands beside her head, looking down at her. His eyes were half-lidded, and he swore he could hear his love’s heart pounding in her chest, frantically trying to escape. Her eyes are wild with the fear of a caged beast, but Eddie doesn’t mind it any, anticipation building in his chest. 

“Come with me.” He whispered sweetly into her ear, and drew himself away. He ignored the huge breath of relief his soon-to-be-wife lets out, and gestured for her to follow.

Reluctantly, she does, letting him guide her out of the room and to a set of a couple locked doors. He unlocks one and goes through it, glancing back to make sure she’s still walking after him. She is, much to his surprise. Perhaps his wife is more curious than he thought. 

After a short time, just enough to walk down a narrow wooden hallway, she asked, “Where are we going?”

Eddie smiled broadly in her direction, feeling the right half of his face twinge in pain. 

“Outside.” He responded smoothly, ignoring it.

“OUTSIDE!?” She gasped immediately, grabbing his arm. Eddie looked to her, making sure there wasn’t any fear on her face. He was sick of her being afraid.

Much to his delight, his darling looked excited, not frightened. She was smiling for once, her intelligent eyes bright with hope and joy, and he knew instantly that going outside had been the right choice. After all, who couldn’t use some fresh air? Eddie kind of missed the soft breezes of the outdoors, of the plant life, of the sun’s rays. He’d been inside too long.

“You’ll need to take a tight grip on my hand, though, darling.” Eddie said back coyly. “I don’t want you getting lost.”

Waylon nodded shakily, and Eddie threaded his fingers with hers. Her hands were so cold, in comparison to him, and he felt a deep longing to warm her up.  
Eddie led her through a network of rooms. When it came to it, he rammed aside heavy metal objects with his shoulder, shoving them away. He ordered her to stand aside when it came to ripping boards off doors (he’d have to replace them later, but so what? He had plenty of time) and pushing empty shelves and tiny drawers away from where they blocked doors. He also unlocked doors that weren’t boarded up or blocked with the keyring he’d acquired from dead security guards and doctors. He had a full couple dozen keys on the keyring, and he was quite proud of his collection, although there were some spots of blood that simply refused to come out of the dulled metal.

As he led his dearest through the halls, he began to have doubts. Invasive, wiggling thoughts that made it harder and harder to keep up his steady pace, that made it harder to shove aside objects and reach for his keys. 

What if, when he let her outside, she ran from him? What if she attacked him, stole his keys, and fled? What if they were attacked, his darling slaughtered by cruel hands? 

Perhaps… Going outside was a bad idea. A terrible idea, even.

He hesitated on the final door out, hesitated in ripping away boards of wood and unlocking the door. He could feel his bride at his shoulder, and he could imagine her whining anxiously, like a dog that wanted to go out. 

He bit his lip. He had to believe the best of his wife. 

He dug his hands into the wood. It was rotted with age- as most wood was in this place- and he ripped it away easily enough. He repeated the action with two more planks, and shot a worried look in Waylon’s direction. 

His darling’s eyes were wide with warmth and hope, and he smiled to himself, feeling a soft glow of happiness in his gut. 

He opened the final door, gently swinging it open. 

He grabbed Waylon’s hand tightly, just in case she wanted to immediately bolt, and shielded his eyes from the sun with his other hand. It was still foggy, still misty, even in the daylight sun, so he adjusted fast enough. There was still grass around, a stony pavilion leading this way and that, a couple short, thorny trees and taller, more towering ones. 

He shot a look at his darling, who looked completely flabbergasted. She blinked around the world like she could barely believe it, shaking badly, and her shock twisted to a huge toothy grin.

Immediately, she turned to Eddie, yanking her hand free and embracing him tightly. Her head was buried in his chest, and her arms encircled him tightly, holding him close to her. Eddie smiled to himself, curling his arms around her. He thought she might be sobbing, but he wasn’t sure. 

He melted into the hug, humming sweetly to himself as he raised one arm to pet her hair. This was one time where he was content to not have his bride speak her gratitude. He understood it from this simple gesture.

His worries were outweighed, his doubts thrown aside, by the feeling of his darling’s body flush against his. 

Oh, yes. Bringing her outside had been a wonderful idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAW HAW HAW PREPARE FOR LOCATIONS THAT DIDN'T EXIST IN-GAME NEXT CHAPTER


	6. Be on Your Guard(en)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He allowed himself to tentatively relax, even with Gluskin’s arm around his shoulder. The man is warm, and it’s cold outside, and he smelled less of piss and blood. Waylon wondered whether this was because he’d cleaned up, or because he’d just gotten used to the smell. 
> 
> The Groom hummed contentedly, and to Waylon’s surprise, his eyes were heavy-lidded, and the programmer wondered for a moment if he’d actually fall asleep, just as he heard the first yell.

“Where are we?” Waylon asked, peering around the area. There was a gate to his immediate left, with a door, a locker pressed up against it from behind, blocking escape from that direction. The area in front of him appeared to be some sort of plaza. It had a cobblestone path leading from the building they’d just exited to a large area made of stone, completed with a large fountain dumped on top of it. Waylon winced to himself when he realized the fountain’s water was polluted with blood, turning a slight pinkish-red, although he didn’t see any bodies from here. 

He should’ve realized that was an early warning sign that something was wrong. 

Skeleton-esque trees hung around the place, towering menacingly overhead, branches reaching out like fingers, clawing for escape from the Asylum’s ground. There were tinier trees too- Waylon would’ve been inclined to call them shrubs, if they’d had any kind of foliage. The grass was surprisingly not dead, although it was scraggly, and the stones were splattered with blood of varying age. People had died here- probably a lot- but there was a suspicious absence of corpses. 

“It’s called the Garden.” Eddie interrupted, shaking Waylon from his instinctively investigative thoughts. He glanced up at Eddie, deciding whether or not he was pulling his leg with another cursory glance around the place. 

“Doesn’t a garden need… You know, plants? That aren’t dead?”

Eddie chuckled to himself. “Darling, you’re so silly… But you’re right. We’re not at the Garden yet. It’s to the right, a little ways.” He grabbed Waylon’s hand again, tugging him along the cobblestone path, passing the fountain. He started to hum to himself, that dumb little song- “I Want a Girl”, Waylon thought it was called. “Come now, darling.”

As they passed the fountain, they turned the corner of a building, and Waylon started in surprise. Nestled snugly between three walls of a building, curling around the area, was the Garden. It was surprisingly nice for someplace like the Asylum- it had trees, with actual goddamn leaves, and green leaves, at that. 

“Is any fruit still there?” He asked, for the sake of his poor stomach, trying to sound casual about it.

“Yes.” Eddie replied easily. 

“Really?” Waylon hoped he didn’t sound too excited. “I would’ve thought- everything there would’ve been eaten by now. You know, with all the hungry patients around.”

“It’s been claimed already.” Eddie huffed. “People respect other’s territory- for the most part. Walker’s good about it, but Manera is pretty iffy- But most of the fruit here is going to waste. Some people are more scared of dying in a confrontation than they are of dying of hunger.”

“To waste?” Waylon prayed his voice didn’t sound as alarmed as it felt. “Doesn’t the guy who claimed this place eat it?” 

“The man who makes his claim here is more inclined towards consuming humans rather than plants.” Eddie sounded dismissive. “He prefers to use this place like a honeypot- luring in hungry patients with the promise of food, so he can devour them. I disagree with his eating choices, but even I have to admit, it’s rather clever. Staking a claim next to possibly the most valuable resource in the entire Asylum. It’s hunting deer when you live next to salt rocks.” 

“We’re not going in, though.” He said hastily, misreading the look in Waylon’s eyes. “I don’t want a fight on my hands if I can’t help it. I’m perfectly capable of defending us both, but I tend to avoid skirmishes if I can.”

His face lost the serious expression pretty fast, evening out into a soft smile. “This is okay, though, right?”

Waylon nodded, hesitantly. “To be honest… I’m just glad to be outside again. I haven’t been out here for longer than a couple minutes in almost three weeks, ever since I got a job h-” He stumbled. “Ever since I got here.”

Thank God. Eddie didn’t seem to notice his slip. He seemed content to just hold Waylon’s hand and meander around the courtyard and bloodied fountain, eventually steering Waylon to a bench and pulling him onto it. Waylon took a deep breath, internally steeling himself. It was for Lisa. For staying alive. He could tolerate the madman. He was as harmless as a puppy, unless he got angry. And right now, he was as far from angry as a person could possibly get.

He allowed himself to tentatively relax, even with Gluskin’s arm around his shoulder. The man is warm, and it’s cold outside, and he smelled less of piss and blood. Waylon wondered whether this was because he’d cleaned up, or because he’d just gotten used to the smell. 

The Groom hummed contentedly, and to Waylon’s surprise, his eyes were heavy-lidded, and the programmer wondered for a moment if he’d actually fall asleep, just as he heard the first yell.

At the sound, his soon-to-be husband jerked himself up, grabbing Waylon as he moved, and yanking the knife from his belt. From another building, and into the gated hallway that blocks the plaza from the left, three men charged out. They were scrawny, weak, and Waylon didn’t recognize any of them, although he doesn’t think he _should._

They started yelling hoarsely, excitedly, pointing at Waylon and Eddie as if spotting some exotic animals. Eddie snarled at them in response, cursing under his breath about stupid whores and how they made it hard to enjoy the simplest things in life. The three of them started shoving and slamming at the shelf that blocked the gate, and Waylon swallowed, looking for places to run and hide instinctively. Not up a tree. Not to the Garden. Back where he and Eddie had come from?

“Darling.” Eddie said, voice tight. “Go back inside.”

“You- You can handle them, right?” Waylon checked. Not because he was worried for Eddie’s safety. It was just… Because then, he didn’t have someone to protect him anymore. 

“Darling, your concern is touching.” Eddie mumbled, eyes trained on the patients threatening to break in. “I can kill these whores, don’t worry. But I don’t want you caught in the middle of it- I want you safe.”

He smiled. “I promise you, we’ll return to it once I’ve taken care of these sluts. I quite enjoyed our time out here."

Waylon hesitated, for a long moment, then darted in to hug Eddie briefly, before sprinting for the door they’d come from.

And, of course, there was a fucking patient standing at the door, gazing at Waylon coolly, with an almost cruel look in his eye. 

Waylon staggered from the door, looking for the next route of escape. The three attackers had broken in already, charging Eddie. Waylon didn’t check to see how that was going- he barreled for the Garden, intending to hide. 

He stumbled in, rows of plants sitting together, hodge-podge. Tiny little sprouts sat next to towering trees, and little flowering things nestled next to drooping shrubs, heavy with the weight of sweet fruits.

Well, there was plenty a-place to hide amongst the foliage, and he was surprised by just how much plant life was here, how much was still living. There were moderately tall trees, down to shorter sprouts, all of them a rich, deep emerald, or a tenderer green. They were all well-cared for, judging by the lack of obvious disease and the rich coloring of the leaves. Someone must’ve been taking water from the fountain and dumping it here, on the plants, in order to keep them alive. He had to admire that level of dedication.

What he admired more was the fruit hanging from some of the trees. He strained on tip-toes, trying to reach up to pluck a green-red apple from one of them. Nope. He cursed the genes that made him so damn short, and went deeper into the Garden, hoping to find a shorter fruit-bearing plant to appease his appetite. It didn’t matter if it was bitter, or sour, he was hungry.

Aha! He dashed across a cobblestone pathway, heading to where a couple of tiny bushes sat next to a collection of deep purple flowers. 

“You’re a pretty thing.” A voice made Waylon jolt from where he was stooped over a little shrub. “In your dress, with your hair, with your smooth skin. Flawless face, lovely eyes. You care for yourself more than anyone else cares to.”

Waylon whirled around.

The person was huge. Almost Gluskin’s height, but with a bulging stomach that seemed almost unnaturally distended- the rest of him was thin, but his middle- it was like he’d swallowed a beach ball. The patient was also missing toes, fingers, and a good chunk of their nose and left ear. Their lower jaw jutted out, and Waylon wondered if he was seeing more bad breeding than the Engine’s effects. 

“I-” he started to say, but a hand grabbed his throat, sweeping him up. Waylon choked, banging his fists on the creature’s arms in desperation. “I feel like you’re important. Your beauty, so perfect and pruned… Oh, yes, I know who you belong to. So the Groom finally found the right bride, eh?”

“Who are-”

“Except his territory ain’t out here. What the fuck are you doing, leaving your husband? Are you unfaithful, darling?”

“No!” He objected hastily. “It’s- It’s a long story, but I’m not-”

“Are you a veggie, poor darling?” The Variant bared ugly, broken teeth, making Waylon cringe and struggle harder. “Is that why you’re here? You’re too delicate for human meat, sweetling? If you want to survive here, you’ll need to train that little weakness out.” Roughly, with little to no regard for Waylon, he threw the programmer over his shoulder, carrying him like a sack of potatoes. The programmer protested against the hand pinned around his waist, thrashing ferociously.

“Gluskin picked a lively one for his bride,” The Variant chuckled sweetly. “Still so much fire in you. If I weren’t inclined towards leaving a married couple alone, I’d take a piece of that fire for my own.” He licked his lips, letting his hands roam. Revulsion made Waylon’s spine tingle. “As it stands, I’ll offer an early wedding gift. It will prove more valuable than anything else anyone in this wretched place can offer.”

“What are you going to do?” Waylon asked hoarsely. “Or what are you going to give?”

“You’ll see soon, lovely one. I expect your husband will be right pleased when I’m done.”

“When you’re done with what?” He wheedled.

“Here we go, lovely.” He dumped the shorter man on the ground, outside the Garden, grinning. In front of them was a half-gone corpse, great sweeps of flesh cleaved by a blade. Waylon was repulsed, even more so when the patient took a knife from his belt and hacked off a great piece.

He grabbed the programmer roughly, by the back of his dress, and pinned him there, offering the chunk to his lips. “Open.” He said, with false sweetness.

Waylon drew back, eyes round with fear. Silently, he shook his head.

“It’s a survival skill, lovely- learning to eat what you don’t want to.”

Waylon bit his lip to keep from retorting. If he opened his mouth, he gave the Variant a nice chance at stuffing it down his gullet. And there was no way in hell he was swallowing that.

“Do you want to make this difficult, lovely?” He murmured into the programmer’s ear, but there was a sharp edge to his words. “Open. Your. Mouth.” 

If anything, that solidified his determination to never open his mouth ever again.

The Variant growled in annoyance. “You’re being very rude. I’m offering you something, so generously, and you’re defying me openly. This is your wedding gift, you ungrateful whore, how dare you not accept it!”

Waylon suddenly found himself with his ass tossed on the ground, a knee planted on his chest that was almost suffocating in its weight. One hand still held the meat slab, while the other worked at prying his jaw open. The programmer struggled, scrabbling against his hands with his nails, trying to force him back. Fear made his heart race, revulsion made his spine chill. Just as his jaw was forced open, Waylon sharply turned his head and screamed “EDDIE!” as loud as he possibly could with the Variant’s knee smothering his lungs.

The Variant cursed. “You’re making this so difficult, lovely. It almost makes me think you don’t want my gift, and that hurts. I could always give the Groom an extra gift- your body, with ten new holes carved for him to play with. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before himse-”

Eddie whirled around the corner, knife drawn and clothes bloodied. He bared his teeth at the other Variant, charging over with his overlarge blade swinging. The patient threw himself off Waylon’s chest, rolling smoothly and rising into a stand. He grabbed his own knife, and the two dueled for a brief moment, before Eddie got a slice at his belly. The Variant tumbled, groaning, and little gray ropes of entrails peeked from his gut. He held it closed with his hands, panting, and the Groom ambled closer, grinning in anticipation.

“Jus’ tryin’ to help your sweet little wife,” The Variant rasped. “Teach her how to eat proper. She’s gonna starve out here, Gluskin, without eatin’ human bits.”

“Gentler persuasion is required for her than the shameless effort you put forward.” He growled. “Neither of us will deign to cannibalization until we run out of everything else.”

“Ughh… Still’s a good idea to train her early… Whatcha doin’ on my turf anyway, Gluskin?” He wheezed.

“Well, I was just going to take my new wife for a stroll… But, you have the Garden in your claim, John. I considered it for a bit, and I was hoping to discuss taking it off your hands, now that I’m supporting two. It’s not as if you’re using it.”

“There are other patients who are, and I try to fend ‘em off, but they come in groups, and I ain’t fightin’ three men at once. The place’s picked mostly bare.”

“In a year’s time, it will all regrow and regain- but the hands that pick will all have gone back to the soil itself. Many people are going to starve and die here, John. I will not let my darling, nor myself, become one of them.”

“You can have the Garden, so long’s you help me fend off any critter who comes ‘round to pick it.”

“We still have our own home. We cannot constantly tend to the Garden- you are the fourth to have snatched my darling from me, and although I have forgiven you, and I cannot leave her side anymore. And she belongs back up in my room. I will, however, kill anyone I happen to encounter in your Garden, and give you everyone I find as a gift.”

“You are a saint, Gluskin.” John groaned.

Waylon dared to weakly rise, Eddie immediately at his side, grabbing his arm to help him up. He pressed Waylon to his side, forearm tight against his waist. He shot a glance at John, and gently kissed Waylon. He pulled away from the programmer without a word, arching an eyebrow in the patient’s direction.

“I get it, I get it. Yer wife, not mine.” The Variant rose, gritting his teeth. “Help a fella out? Spare needle ‘n thread?”

“I have one, but I would like to go pick apples with my darling first.”

“Don’t do this to me, Gluskin.” John griped. “I die, you get Chris Walker claiming this whole fuckin’ place as his own. He respects other’s turf, more or less, but he won’t fuckin’ respect you an your honey edging in on his claim to get to the Garden.”

Eddie tutted, and kneeled. 

The Groom threaded his needle, easily poking it into the ragged flesh, sewing it up. John groaned and whined about how it hurt, but the alternative was letting his organs slosh out of his body, which was never, never supposed to happen under any circumstance.

Eddie yanked the needle out with a grunt. “There. Good as new. Don’t tear the stitching.” With that, he rose and walked towards the Garden, and Waylon followed timidly. The Variant followed behind, face more annoyed than pained.

“If there’s anyone in there right now, I call first dibs.” John wheezed. “I want all the good bits, Gluskin.”

“Fine.” Eddie said dismissively. “It’s not as if I were going to eat any of it, anyway.”


	7. He's Got a Temper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Then, tell me. Why do you do it?”
> 
> “Why do I do what?” Eddie asked, heading for his storeroom. 
> 
> “Hurt and mutilate men. Kill them. Like Rudy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short, but I was short on time.

“Good morning, darling.” Eddie straddled his bride-to-be, cupping her cheek and kissing her sweetly to wake her. She twitched and stirred, groaning softly underneath him, and Eddie climbed off her, grinning. Her beautiful gray eyes blinked open, and she looked up at him, eyelids heavy with sleep. 

“You’re in a good mood today… Why?” Waylon asked, rubbing her eyes and sitting up, propped on her elbows. Eddie tenderly ruffled her hair and chuckled.

“You can be so silly, darling. It’s our two-week anniversary- have you forgotten? It’s alright if you have- things have been moving so quickly around here, between the acquisition of the Garden and all the planning.”

“Yes, I’m sorry.” Waylon said sheepishly- Oh, she was so cute when she was embarrassed!- “I forgot, what with the wedding and all.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine, darling.” Eddie laughed. “Right now, we’re going to celebrate!”

His bride looked wary. “How?”

“Simple, dearest.” Eddie hummed. “We’re going to do something only the most intimate of lovers do.”

Waylon visibly paled, running her tongue over her teeth in a nervous gesture. “And… That would be?”

“Sharing stories!” 

It’s instantly clear, just from a glance, that she doesn’t get it.

“Sharing… Stories?”

“Yes, darling. Your story… How you came to be here, in this place. Then I'll tell mine.”

Her eyes light up, with excitement and relief. “Oh, is that all? Well, eh…”

His bride threw off the covers, climbing out of bed, hastily throwing on a dress that fit her figure. Eddie watched the whole process with interest, admiring his soon-to-be wife’s body. She was slender, yes, he could count her ribs, and her skin was pale and smooth. He’d save shaving for another date, probably just before the wedding; but she already so blond you could hardly tell she was hairy at all.

She pulled up a nearby chair and sat. “To start off, Murkoff hired me.”

“Hired- You.” A million thoughts flashed through Eddie’s mind, some more violent than the others. He struggled to remain calm, restrained from leaping across the bed and strangling the miserable life from her body. He tried to reason with himself. His darling- She couldn’t be a doctor. She was too soft, too gentle, to do what they did. “You were in a patient’s uniform. Are you saying- You stole it? Were you- a doct-?” 

“What?” His bride blinked in confusion and disbelief, then her eyes widened in dawning comprehension. “No! God no! I wasn’t a doctor. Murkoff… Lied to me about what they were doing here. I wasn’t their puppet for any longer than two more weeks, then I- Spread the word, sent out messages to journalists, telling them about what was happening here. Murkoff… Found out, and as retribution, I became a patient and was put into the Engine program. The rest, of how I got to you, is on the camera.”

Eddie snarled to himself. Doctors had lied to his darling. Manipulated her. Put her through the hell he’d endured. If they weren’t already dead, they’d pay for that. 

He forced himself to speak, to abandon doctor mutilation: “Speaking of the camera. I’ve been meaning to ask your permission to watch it.”

His bride frowned. “Promise me you won’t get angry when you watch it? I get hurt… Quite a few times in it, and I know how you are when you get angry.”

Eddie snorted loudly through his nose. “Fine.”

When he rose, going to go get the camera to watch it, Waylon made a loud sputtering noise. Eddie heard her feet on the old wood, then felt a hand smaller than his own grab his shoulder from behind. “Eddie! Wait! You promised to tell me your story!” His soon-to-be wife almost sounds like she’s pouting. 

“Did I?” He asked idly, singlemindedly focused on getting to the camera. His bride made a loud, angry, impatient sound in the back of her throat, tugging at his arm.

“Eddie!” She half-yelled. 

“Trust me, darling, you’re better off not knowing.” He said bluntly. He was happy, that for the moment, it appeared to have shut her up. She even let go of him, although she still persistantly followed him through their room and out the door.

“Then, tell me. Why do you do it?”

“Why do I do what?” Eddie asked, heading for his storeroom. 

“Hurt and mutilate men. Kill them. Like Rudy.”

“Rud-” He let his shoulders slump, and he sighed loudly. “Ugh. Honestly, darling. Why did you even bother learning the name of one of those whores?”

“Eddie, I told you why I’m here, and I’m letting you watch what’s on the camera. You have to answer.”

Irritation made his calm composure snap. “Darling. You are talkative at the _worst of times._ Because it’s our anniversary, I’m not going to do anything to you, but I need you to learn to be quiet when I don’t want to hear your voice, and your million questions.”

That made her quiet. 

Eddie rewarded her with a soft kiss on the cheek. “There. Is it honestly so hard to simply do as I ask?”

There was a stony silence in response. Eddie was tempted to apologize for his harsh tongue and bitter words, but he was determined to remain firm. If he went soft on her now, she’d be constantly speaking out of turn and questioning his authority. It was easier if she learned her place now and didn’t need to be taught later. 

“I’m going to go back to bed.” She said flatly. 

“Alright, darling.” Eddie said, letting his voice relax into something a little more pleasant. “Remember to not strain your leg too hard. You may not feel it, due to the painkillers, but if you damage it accidentally it might hurt everything we’ve worked for.”

“Don’t worry, Eddie.” Waylon said quietly. “I’ll remember.”

Eddie drew her to himself impulsively, kissing her. She stood there, in his arms, until he was satisfied and let her go. 

She walked away, and Eddie turned towards the storage room.

He grabbed the camera, slotted in fresh batteries, and sat back to watch, starting from the very beginning.

His darling. Restrained and struggling. Shaking her head, fear writ plainly on her face, in the beads of sweat trickling down her temples and in the strangled, choking cries from her throat. Eddie paused it, and realized, with anger budding in his chest, his darling had been absolutely correct. The things in here would make him angry. 

He took a deep breath, and unpaused the video, settling down for close to an hour of footage.


	8. Boone the Bane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wait. Do you hear-”
> 
> Waylon’s eyes widened in alarm as he recognized footsteps and humming, the humming of that stupid song, “I Want a Girl.”
> 
> Waylon shoved the files at Boone, and hissed, “Under the bed!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry this took so long. Buuut, I had to take a break, lest I suffer from being burned out. There's also been the shifting of therapists, my regular doctor quitting- Ah, it's just a mess. But! I should start updating again, and the next chapter should be out soon.

When Waylon returned to his room, it was already occupied. 

The man who sat on his bed had dark skin, as well as tightly curled, springy black hair, and intense, dark eyes. The man looked oddly familiar, and Waylon took a second to place him. It was the man who’d occupied Eddie while Thomas spoke to him: Boone, was it? He’d seen only a glimpse of him through the door before Thomas slammed it shut and ran away, like a mischief of mice scurrying away from a cat.

“You’re not here to murder me, right?” Waylon asked timidly. 

“Stereotypes.” Boone grunted. “Just because I’m black, just because I’ve got a few screws loose, doesn’t mean I’m going to kill you.”

“Right.” Waylon nodded, still wary. “Is there a reason you’re here? If Eddie decides to come in here, you’re dead and I…” He broke off, shaking his head in disgust. “He’ll kill me too, for being adulterous, or whatever.” 

“There’s a reason, alright.” Boone nodded. “Look. The wedding’s, what, a couple days from now? I want to give you an early wedding pr-”

“The last person who gave me a wedding present tried to force me to cannibalize another man.” Waylon’s voice was as sharp as thorns. “If your present is anything like that, I swear to God I will scream for Eddie and _watch_ him break your neck.”

Boone held up his hands, placating the programmer. “Nothing like that, I promise. I know you’re a hoarder. I’m the same way. I also recognize you, have a decent idea of what you’re trying to do.”

“You-”

“Being insane doesn’t tamper with my ability to remember faces. You’re the tech guy. You were the one putting everyone through the Engine-”

“If my present is being murdered in a fit of anger, I don’t want it.” Waylon licked his lips nervously, eyes focusing rigidly on the dark-skinned, muscled arms beneath a grubby patient’s uniform. His own arms were practically twigs in comparison. This Boone might’ve been shorter than Eddie, and maybe a bit more undernourished and less muscular, but Waylon bet he could still give him a run for his money. 

“Still no. You’re terrible at guessing games, aren’t you?”

“Just- Give it to me already?”

Without any kind of ceremony, Boone tugged down the zipper of his uniform- which sent alarm bells ringing in Waylon’s head- but didn’t do what Waylon expected. Instead, he retrieved a folder that’d been pressed against his stomach. 

“Files on Gluskin.” Boone explained brusquely, handing them over. Waylon held them as delicately as a newborn, eyes wide.

“How long did it take you to get all of this?” Waylon marveled, flicking through patient reports and various handwritten notes mentioning the Groom. There were at least six different types of paper, and twenty-something different sheets, in various states of cleanliness. Some were grubby with dirt, or wrinkled, or smudged with blood. 

“I used to scrapbook as a coping mechanism. As a leftover of that, not a single piece of paper I find in this place goes to waste- especially not files. There’s a side benefit to picking up useful stuff, too. I like not dying, and if there’s anything in there I could use to help me not die, I would want it.”

“Fair point.” Waylon said cautiously, scanning through scrawling words and typed letters. “Jesus. Compared to the other patients I’ve seen, you’re so…”

“Aware? A lot of us are. Or, rather, were. People who were aware were the first that Walker decided to kill.”

“I was going to say sane.” Waylon corrected awkwardly. “What even got you put in here, anyway?”

“I see… Things. Things that aren’t there. For example, I can see a large, shadowy, scarecrow looking bastard leaning over behind you.”

Waylon immediately jumped around, brow wrinkling when he realized nothing was there. Slowly, he turned back to Boone, feeling even more cautious. 

“They talk to me sometimes. I ignore them. The Engine made it a million times worse, a million times more vivid. It used to only be voices. Only voices.”

He closed his eyes, and Waylon gave him a minute.

“I think your wedding gift is going to be the most valuable of any one that I’ll get.” He said honestly. “I like not dying, too, and if there’s anything in here that can help me escape, that can help me persuade Eddie, I’ll take it.”

“If I were you, I’d convince him out of the Asylum, so the rest of us can take it over. Hell, if you could manage it, get Gluskin to take down Walker, or Trager, on your way out. If they both don’t die, one of ‘em definitely will, and the other’ll probably be pretty badly injured.”

“I don’t think Eddie will go for it.” Waylon grimaced. Boone started a reply, but the programmer shushed him quickly.

“Wait. Do you hear-”

Waylon’s eyes widened in alarm as he recognized footsteps and humming, the humming of that stupid song, “I Want a Girl.”

Waylon shoved the files at Boone, and hissed, “Under the bed!”

Boone, needing no further instruction, dropped to his knees and rolled underneath, letting the blankets draped over the side of the bed be his protection.

Eddie walked in at the split second Boone was safely underneath, and Waylon swore his heart was about to jump out of his throat. 

“Eddie.” Waylon greeted awkwardly, offering a weak smile.

“Darling. Ohhh, darling.” Eddie moved slowly closer, his voice as loving as it could get. “I’ve not finished half of your recording, and I can hardly stomach it. I can’t believe…” His hand came up to cup Waylon’s cheek gently, and he drew in closer, but didn’t kiss the programmer. “The hell you went through… Just to get to me. I know now. I know, darling, how much you love me. How much I mean to you.” 

Scarred lips pressed to Waylon’s own, and a jolt of revulsion shot down his spine like lightning, but goddamn it, he was a man, and he bore it unflinchingly. Eddie’s hands roamed over his back, making every place they touched feel too hot and too cold at the same time. One of them found his shoulder blade, and squeezed gently, the other finding his hip and cupping it. Eddie’s chest was pressed to Waylon’s, forced in place by the hands tenderly gripping his skin.

Eddie pulled away, his damaged, red-filled eyes softened. An oddly sweet look for such an awful, deranged killer. 

“You know…”

Waylon did not like that slow, low tone, that was almost sleepily happy, that contained just the hint of coyness to make him feel apprehensive. 

“We’re going to be wed in two days.”

Oh, God, please, no. 

“Do you know what that means, darling?”

Oh, God, why? 

Eddie drew away from Waylon, placing a hand over his abdomen, gently rubbing his belly from above the dress. 

“I’ll get to make an honest woman of you, darling.”

Damn. Damn. Damn. 

“And we’ll try for our first child.” 

Waylon saw that puppyish, lovey-dovey smile on his soon-to-be husband, and he thought he was going to be sick.


	9. Birds of a Feather...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His love was trembling- The water was cold, and although Eddie hated to do it to his darling, the showers were even colder (and most of them didn’t work), which left him with this as the most comfortable way to get thoroughly clean. 
> 
> Eddie set the towel around her shoulders and hugged her from behind, hoping to warm her small, shuddering frame. He set his chin on her shoulder, gently kissing her ear. “You look beautiful, darling. All that’s left is a shave, and you’ll be perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead! Yaay! This whole time I've been working up the patience to write another chapter, and I know it's taken a while, but it's here!

“Agh! Honestly, darling, you’ve gotten me all wet!” Eddie scolded in annoyance, staring down at his splashed clothes and attempting to dry them with a slightly bloody towel. His pants were speckled with droplets, his shirt sopping wet from water she’d accidentally slopped all over him. 

“I’m sorry,” She said meekly.

Eddie waved her off, taking the dampness in stride. “Ah, it’s not your fault, darling. You didn’t splash me on purpose.” 

“Do you think I’m clean now, Eddie?” She asked, voice still subdued. Eddie judged for a moment, considering the grime of the tub he’d appropriated (seriously, it had been difficult to drag around an entire bathtub to his home) and the physical cleanliness of his bride. He lifted her out of it, being gentle about it, and set her down, rubbing her skin with the fluffiest and cleanest towel he’d been able to find. It had been coated with dust, but after a quick shake, it was good enough. 

His love was trembling- The water was cold, and although Eddie hated to do it to his darling, the showers were even colder (and most of them didn’t work), which left him with this as the most comfortable way to get thoroughly clean. 

Eddie set the towel around her shoulders and hugged her from behind, hoping to warm her small, shuddering frame. He set his chin on her shoulder, gently kissing her ear. “You look beautiful, darling. All that’s left is a shave, and you’ll be perfect.”

They sat like that, entwined, for a long while, her shivers slowly dying. Once the last shudder wracked her body, Eddie rose, offering her a pair of panties, which she hesitated to accept but ultimately did. 

“Don’t worry, darling. This won’t take long.” He’d salvaged a couple razors and some liquid soap, which made the task of shaving a lot less difficult. He squirted it onto the palm of his hand and gently massaged it into her calves, which made her shudder for a much different reason. Gently and slowly, he scraped downward with the blade, accumulating soft blond hairs on the edge. He dunked it in the tub, wiping away soap and hair, and continued the slow process for both legs. He gradually made his way up to her thighs, both inner and outer, humming softly to himself as he removed the thick, wiry hairs from her legs, so close to her crotch that the razor brushed it a couple times. Her tiny squeaks and hitched breaths were music to his ears, but he reminded himself firmly to wait until they were wed. That was when the fun could begin. 

He had her lift her arms, spreading soapy liquid gently over her abundance of arm hair. He felt a good degree of satisfaction as the long hairs were removed- it had been an ugliness, a blight on his darling, but now that it was gone, she was perfect, beautiful. He repeated with the other arm, then her face, gently removing the slight goatee she had. 

Gorgeous. Stunning. Perfect. His bride was already a beauty enough to take his breath away, but now that she had all her unsightly hairs gone, she was complete. Perfectly complete. 

“Oh, darling.” Eddie half-moaned, pressing his nose to her jaw, inwardly delighted that he felt only the pricking stubble of hair, and not a full beard. “I’ve made you perfect again. You have your smooth, soft skin… Your lovely face and beauty are no longer obscured by ugly hairs, my darling.”

“Thank you, Eddie.” She responded, sounding a little unsure of herself. Maybe she was so used to having those ugly hairs, here in the asylum, she was stunned that she was finally beautiful again. Eddie smiled, moving his lips from her neck to her mouth, giving her a gentle kiss. From the act of shaving, the sheer intimacy of it all, he’d gotten aroused, and he half-considered stowing his wedding night plans and having her here and now. 

He reminded himself that he must be patient. If he weren’t patient, everything would be ruined. His darling was a virgin, plain and simple, and he needed to be delicate and romantic with her first time. Rutting her like a pig here and now would be a huge waste and would forever cement in his darling’s head that he was an impatient, sex-crazed animal. He turned his nose up at the thought and let his burgeoning erection wilt.

He removed his lips from hers, offering her a hand to rise, which she took gratefully. Eddie offered her a dress, which she put on with slight deliberation. The picture of perfection, now that she was clean and shaven. 

“Now, darling, I don’t believe I’ve shown you all of our home, so now would be the time to take a tour.” He offered his hand again, and she took it, and he led her down the hall.

They ended up going into the Garden, at her insistence, saying she liked the fresh air and the not-dead plants. While they traveled the courtyard and garden, Waylon pointed out birds to Eddie- Eddie noticed them in interest, because he couldn’t really recall the last time he saw a bird that wasn’t a carrion creature; a raven, or a vulture, or a crow. He’d killed a raven once, while his darling had been safely kept in his room (those were the early days, when he was still uncertain on her trustworthiness.) He and his darling had cooked and eaten it. And in all honesty, it hadn’t been that bad. 

He wondered if songbirds would taste even better than the raven. They were a lot smaller, which meant harder to catch and less meat. He discarded the idea and contented himself with watching her ooh and aah over the pretty birds, listening to their songs and watching the bright-colored ones with an artist’s interest. One of the ones that caught his eye was a bright, vibrant blue, that Waylon told him was a steller’s jay. 

Eddie hadn’t known the name, and when he questioned Waylon, she admitted she’d been an amateur bird watcher and knew a lot of the breeds that flew around Colorado.

“But I didn’t think birds would actually come into the Asylum.” Waylon said to him quietly, still watching that male hover around an almost-dead tree before finally deciding to perch, lifting up a wing and preening its secondary feathers. 

“They don’t, not usually.” Eddie said, eyes also fixed on the thing. “I think it is an omen, darling. It means the worst of the Asylum is gone- making way for the both of us.” He removed his eyes from it, and turned them to her, smiling. “We’ll raise our children here in peace, the same way the birds will.”

His soon-to-be bride gave him a watery smile, and he hugged her gently.

_One more day, and we’ll be wed._


	10. Here Comes the Bride...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He instructed Waylon to wear the dress he had been making ever since the programmer had arrived in his care. Waylon found it with just a cursory look around the room- made of neatly stitched straightjackets, with a white veil. When he slipped it on, he was surprised at just how well it fit, snugly hugging the curves of his body, accentuating them. He didn’t have a mirror, but he knew just how feminine he must look like this. 
> 
> He’d accepted that he would be Eddie’s bride. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, calming himself. He could do this. God, he could do this. 
> 
> In the dress- and still barefoot, although the arch of his feet were wrapped in gauze and the dress obscured his toes anyway- he made his way out of their room, locking it behind himself, and headed towards Eddie’s impromptu church.

The big day. Waylon’s wedding, to an out-of-control madman with no regard for human life and human suffering. He was to be demasculinized, shamed, become a wife even though he should most assuredly be a husband. A male. But, like so many times before in his life, his genitals became his gender. He wanted to shout and cry from the bitterness of it all, but didn’t find himself able. If he slipped up, if there became cracks in his façade, Eddie would brand him a whore and a lead-on and hang him like the other sluts and teases. 

Even now, as he stood at a precipice, a shattered window that lead to a long drop and a way out, a place to scramble to safety, he feared there’d be some obstacle in his way, frustratingly blocking his exit and causing Eddie’s swift, rage-filled vengeance to descend upon him like a vicious, hungry bird. The patients that were chasing him had a knack for losing Waylon but still managing to find their way back to him, starting his torment all over again.

He couldn’t be a runaway bride, because if he ever stopped running, he’d be caught and killed.

He drew away from the window, still gently limping. The soft glow of the moon illuminated the hallway in front of him, the light slanting through the window, his body blocking some of the moonlight and creating a silhouette in the glow. He slowly turned, heading down the hallway, back to Eddie’s room- the lion’s den, the raptor’s nest. Waylon could creep in, steal Eddie’s knife from the dresser, kill him in his sleep, but supposing it _worked_ he’d be in constant danger without Eddie guarding him. The only living patients now, after these- was it two weeks? He was losing track of time- would have to be the strongest, the apex predators, or the ones that stuck together. Ones he couldn’t fight, certainly not defeat. He needed Eddie’s protection- it was the only thing that kept him alive these weeks. 

_Lisa. Lisa, I’m trying. Trying to get to you, I swear it. You have to understand, I’m only marrying him in pretend. I love you._

Would Lisa understand? Would _anyone_ understand? Even Waylon himself admitted that he thought he was a coward, too timid to leave relative safety. Seeing the gore, the violence, the bloodshed- all of that- hadn’t made him any less of a chicken. He was still a timid soul, who wouldn’t dare harm another being unless there was no alternative, no choice in the matter. 

Even still, it looked like to him that his cowardice here wasn’t safe. He couldn’t spend his whole life in a killer asylum with some seriously whacked-up patients, wed to a misogynistic mutilator. 

He found himself in the Garden once more, having turned from Eddie’s door out of sheer intimidation. Funny, he seemed almost drawn here- but, of course, it could’ve been the alluring promise of freedom, outside of the hellish Asylum, that much closer to the gates- he could almost taste his liberation in the air. It could’ve also been the need to see the stars and moon, to know that even in this hell, the sun still set and the moon still rose. Or maybe it was the promise of fresh fruit. Food. 

“You’re out late tonight, sweetling.” Waylon whipped up the camcorder- he kept it with him on sheer instinct now- and reflective eyes glowed in the blackness from between the tree leaves. He recognized John’s voice, and since there wasn’t wind, he heard and saw John approaching, cobblestone and grass trampled underneath his weight. “Your husband know you’re here?”

Waylon, in response to his physical closeness, stepped backward, swallowing dryly. He did not want to get killed out here. 

“Oh, come on now. No need to run away, sweetling, I’ve seen the error of my ways.” John grinned at Waylon, his teeth a pearly white in the night vision, lending an inhuman look to his already monstrous appearance. “I promise, I’ve learned. All it took was your husband slicing me open like he was gutting a fish.”

“Eddie will kill you.” Waylon’s voice grew faint, his heart pounding in his ears. He calculated just how hard it would be to rush through the doors and get into the Groom’s room. Most of the doors he’d shut behind him, but Waylon was fast, agile, and this Variant was both fat and slow. “Don’t you dare fucking touch me. He’ll rip your balls off and shove them down your throat.”

He let out a barking laugh, and Waylon felt nauseous. “Pretty bride. You’ve grown bolder since I’ve last seen you- I would say that’s a bad thing, but you have your husband to back up your pretty little threats, don’t you?” 

“The wedding is tomorrow.” Waylon said, struggling to keep his tone even, struggling to keep the panic from overtaking him. “You don’t want him pissed off on his wedding day. Believe me.”

“Alright, bride.” John said easily. His face twisted into a frown, the lusting, predatory snarl gone. “But I plan on attending, whether or not you or your husband is keen.”

John paused, staring at Waylon with a brow arched. “The stars are lovely tonight, don’t you think, bride? It makes a nice change from the fog and rain. A lot less cold, anyway.”

Waylon was, in a word, confused. His heart was still pounding, dizzied from all the fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins. Hearing the flesh-eating madman who was hell-bent on forcing him to become a cannibal comment on the pretty sky was hilariously unexpected and ludicrous, and Waylon half-laughed, half-sobbed.

John fixed him with a stare, an odd expression on his face. “You should go inside, sweetling.”

-

“Where have you been, my love?” Eddie’s voice was both muzzy and chiding. His hair was messy, strands falling all over his face, his blue eyes sleepy but concerned. He was propped up on his elbows, blanket thrown over his legs and bare chest. As Waylon approached, he peeled away the blanket, sitting up fully. His eyes roved to the clock on the wall, squinting in the darkness. The clock’s face caught the light peeking in from a gap in the curtains obscuring the window. The small hand was firmly set on three, the minute hand on ten, or somewhere thereabouts. “It’s late.”

“The stars are gorgeous tonight.” Waylon responded tiredly, touched that he was concerned, but still too fatigued to ponder on it. “I had to go take a closer look.”

When he’d left John’s company, to make his wary way back up to Eddie, he didn’t have a single moment to himself, because the second he set foot in the building, a patient lunged at him. He fell to the ground, the breath leaving him, his skull spared from knocking against concrete because of the hands that were wrapped around his throat, throttling him. He stared up at the patient; even in the dark, he could tell in a flash the skin was too light to be Boone, but a longer look revealed it was one of the less physically impaired ones, one that had retained all its natural skin. He didn’t recognize them, and even if he did, he couldn’t tell them to stop due to the hands currently choking the life out of him. He banged his fists against their shoulder, grabbed their arms, and tried to kick, but they refused to let go.

John had evidently heard Waylon’s choked gurgling and the patient’s frantic, high-pitched breathing, because he wandered over, knife in hand. As soon as he realized what was happening, John let out a savage, delighted snarl, and rushed for them. Waylon looked up to see his savior and didn’t think he’d ever forget the look in the other man’s eye- Carnal rage and hunger glittered in those beady brown eyes, a savage enjoyment and anticipation of getting his hands dirty before eating his meal. How he looked at a person and thought _food…_ It almost made Waylon sick.

John’s first move was to swing his knife, cleaving into the patient’s shoulder to the point where Waylon swore he heard bone scraping against it and felt almost nauseous. The patient on him howled, scrambling off him and trying to flee, thick, sticky blood having spattered both Waylon’s front and the blade.

John had been faster than Waylon had given him credit for- in a couple quick bounding steps, he’d caught up. He grabbed the patient by his throat, flipping the knife in hand and stabbing him repeatedly in the back of the neck, to the point where Waylon might’ve called it decapitation. 

After that, John made short work of the corpse. He sat down with the freshly dead, slitting their belly and cutting away at organs like they were some kind of fruit in an attempt to find a choice cut.

John slurped noisily at the blood surrounding some fleshy organ, licking at it, wrapping his lips and pulling back with his lips dyed a horrid red. He grinned at Waylon, his teeth no longer glowing in the night vision due to the blood staining them, and dropped the corpse he was holding. “Would you like me to accompany you home, bride? I’d hate for anyone to hurt you, like this man would’ve.” He quickly gulped down the questionable giblet, slicing at ropy gray intestines and slurping them up like it was spaghetti. Waylon thought he had never wanted to eat less in his entire life than at that very moment.

“I think I’ll be fine, thank you.” He said faintly, standing up and brushing off his dress, sparing a short, ludicrous moment to be worried that Eddie would be mad about the dirt and blood smudging it. He headed for the door, leaving John to his meal, trying to ignore the excited murmurs, grunts, and groans that he made when devouring body parts.

Waylon had made it in relative safety- unless he was going crazy, he’d seen a couple patients flit away as he moved, their eyes glowing in the night vision before disappearing into the darkness. He tugged the key from where he kept it tied around his neck, and unlocked Eddie’s door, stepping into the room. 

“Hmph. Lovely stars or no, I worry when you go by yourself.” He gestured for Waylon to draw closer with his hands, holding out his arms for a hug. “When the morning sun rises, we’re to be wed, after all.” 

With an inward sigh, Waylon drew closer. The madman’s eyes were soft, tender, whites still filled with blood, and for not the first time, Waylon wondered if they hurt. Before he could work up the courage to ask, Eddie wrapped his arms around Waylon, setting his chin on his shoulder, breathing deeply and easily. 

When Waylon was just starting to relax, Eddie lifted him onto the bed, setting Waylon down next to him. Eddie rolled over, on his side, wrapping an arm around Waylon and holding him close, soon asleep.

Waylon did not sleep so easily. 

Eddie was not there when he woke, but he had left a note on the nightstand in his place. In it, he expressed displeasure at how the wedding wouldn’t be ‘traditional’, but seeing as it was just the two of them, he had to fill roles that would otherwise be given to others. At the moment, guests were slowly filing into his makeshift church, and Eddie was supervising, making sure no whores were slipping in uninvited and keeping fights from breaking out amongst the invited. 

He instructed Waylon to wear the dress he had been making ever since the programmer had arrived in his care. Waylon found it with just a cursory look around the room- made of neatly stitched straightjackets, with a white veil. When he slipped it on, he was surprised at just how well it fit, snugly hugging the curves of his body, accentuating them. He didn’t have a mirror, but he knew just how feminine he must look like this. 

He’d accepted that he would be Eddie’s bride. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, calming himself. He could do this. God, he could do this. 

In the dress- and still barefoot, although the arch of his feet were wrapped in gauze and the dress obscured his toes anyway- he made his way out of their room, locking it behind himself, and headed towards Eddie’s impromptu church. 

Half-way there, and he bumped into Eddie.

“Ah! There you are, darling.” He gave her an affectionate kiss on the forehead. “I was wondering if you’d even woken yet… You certainly sleep quite a bit. The ceremony is about to begin- there’s no real official schedule, since most don’t bother to even keep time here, so we’re just going to start as soon as we’re both ready.” 

“I’m ready.” Waylon said, trying to get some real certainty in his voice.

“Good!” Eddie chirruped, a delighted grin on his face. “Walk down the aisle as soon as you’re ready, darling, there’s no need to delay another moment!”

He took her by the hand, gently humming as he made his way down the halls, eventually ending up in a small, narrow space, full of people. Waylon drew back, his heart hammering in his chest with the sudden fear of being around so many patients. Almost every seat was filled, and although three or four of them were corpses, most were living. Among the crowd, from the brief look, he recognized John, and sitting in the very back row was Thomas and Boone- there were two misshapen, and although he’d never say it out loud, probably inbred, men sitting up towards the front, completely naked and giving dull glares. He remembered them- they’d been outside, called him nervous. 

He thought he recognized the man standing in front of the desk- a priest, he believed? He struggled to remember, before consoling himself with the thought that there were lots of people in the asylum, and it was no wonder he didn’t remember, having seen so many patients. 

Eddie strode up the aisle quickly, keeping his head tilted up, before finally standing in front of the desk at the end of the room. Waylon ducked back shyly behind doors, waiting for Eddie to cue him. 

Eddie gestured slightly with his middle and index, which would’ve just looked like a twitch if anyone wasn’t looking closely. Waylon took a deep breath, feeling his chest swell in his wedding dress, and stepped in, aware of the multiple eyes fixed on him. The veil helped him feel a bit more anonymous, a bit more protected, knowing that although their gazes were locked on his form, none of them could make out his face completely. There was some solace in the knowledge. 

An old-ish man caught his attention, a surgical mask half-on his face, broken spectacles over his eyes, naked from the waist up save for a black bowtie, which felt almost mocking. Wispy threads of gray hair trailed from the sides of his head to his shoulder, completely bald on top, tubes protruding from his left arm. The smock- or whatever it was he was wearing from the waist down- was spattered in all kinds of blood, although the rest of him looked clean. 

The man winked through his broken glasses, a grin forming on what little Waylon could see of his lips, and he mouthed something, although what, the programmer couldn’t tell.

Waylon made it up to where Eddie was, and turned, looking at the taller man: studying his cheekbones, his lips, the overtaking of rashy skin over his face, the little drops of blue that swam in deep pools of bloodred, where the blood vessels in his eyes had been brutally snapped. He noted the softness in Eddie’s face, how his lips were slightly upturned.

He grew lost, studying that face, tuning the priest out until a split second before Eddie’s booming declaration of “I do”.

“Waylon Park,” The priest’s voice was quiet, slow. “Do you take Eddie Gluskin to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness or in health, to love and cherish until death parts you?”

He could feel his pulse roaring in his ears, knowing full well the implications behind the words, knowing the betrayal he was committing against his wife, knowing what would happen once the ceremony was over, once Eddie wanted to make it official. Fully aware he couldn’t say no, if he did Eddie would kill him himself, but knowing that this was all a lie, Waylon would scram the first chance he had. 

“I do.” He said, voice shaking terribly. 

The priest stepped backwards wordlessly, as Eddie lifted up his veil, framing his face in calloused, scarred hands, leaning in for a slow, gentle kiss. Waylon was aware, so aware, of how warm his hands and lips were, of how the people behind him hooted and hollered, how he could hear Boone’s voice especially in the crowd, giving a hoarse cry, but of excitement or despair, Waylon couldn’t tell. 

The millisecond the kiss ended, the old man rose from his chair, as well as John and the Twins. 

John bared ugly teeth. “Every person in attendance has a ten second head start. I suggest you get moving.” 

The other patients, the ones with scabbing rashes, horrible mutilations, or otherwise weakened bodies rose, and scrambled out, terrified. Thomas and Boone were the first ones out, fleeing for their lives, and Waylon noted how John was slowly counting down under his breath. 

“Aw, well now. I guess no one wanted to stick around.” The older man’s voice was surprisingly jaunty, and he shrugged, looking around the mostly empty room. “Might’s well give our congratulations to the newlyweds.” 

In a slow, controlled stroll, the man approached Eddie, shaking his hand and grinning under the ripped surgical mask. “Hey, buddy. If you’re lookin’ to get a womb in there,” He gestured to Waylon with his thumb, and the programmer thought he would be sick, “I can arrange it, I’ve saved a couple just for you.”

“No need, Trager.” Eddie shook his head, still smiling. “She’s already perfect.”

Trager’s eyes seemed to light up, and he studied Waylon again, a smirk on his face that was much more smug. “Ah, well. Got other people to put ‘em into, if you don’t want ‘em, but I must say, you make the cutest couple here by far. The only one whose ever come close are the two rats I saw fuckin’ on a corp-”

“We are going to take Martin and leave.” One of the Twins interjected abruptly, gazing past both Waylon and Eddie at the priest. 

“We extend our congratulations before we go.” The other added, and the two walked up to Father Martin, flanking him as they left. 

“I think I’m going to need to go as well… We don’t celebrate anything much anymore. Good to get out of the house a little… Although now that I’m out, I might need help back in.” He looked to John expectantly. “Come on, buddy. Be my bodyguard for a bit, might reward ya.”

“Sure, doctor. Just give me a moment with the lovely couple.” He waved Trager off. 

“I wish both of you nothing but the best. Try not to starve out here or die, and remember, you can always take me up on the present I’m offering.”

Waylon shivered, disgusted.

The two turned and left, Trager chatting with the patient, John listening attentively. 

“Well, darling…” Eddie turned his gaze from the two retreating men to Waylon, tilting his head and smiling. “We’re all alone now. We’re married. Eddie Gluskin. Waylon Gluskin. Which means…”

He scooped Waylon up in his arms, holding him bridal style, and Waylon realized with dread where they were headed.

Eddie’s bedroom. 

“… We can consummate our marriage, darling.” He murmured, a soft smile still on his face. “And try for our first baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahAH A hA HA! I'm not dead, not yet- Hopefully this next chapter can tide you over, because the response on the last one was...
> 
> Underwhelming. 
> 
> That being said, feel free to leave a comment or kudos!


	11. I'll Press a Finger to Your Lips, Still Your Trembling Hips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You’re ready, darling.” Eddie whispered to her, and she gave a high pitched whimper.

His bride was trembling when he lowered her to the sheets, her pupils rounded with what Eddie guessed was anticipation, her gray eyes focused on him and him alone. He liked that; having her full, undivided attention, having her lie on the bed ready and wanting, eager for her husband, ready to try for a child with him. He wanted three, maybe more- Two boys and a girl, at the very least. 

He slowly unbuttoned his vest, sliding out of it and setting it over a chair, then starting on his shirt. As he worked at getting it off, he shut the door and locked it, pacing back to stand over his wife, who hadn’t moved, beside turning her head to watch his progress across the room.

“We don’t want anyone barging in, do we?” Eddie said, voice light and teasing. His wife gave a miniscule nod, shifting her shoulders slightly to get more comfortable on the bed. Eddie gingerly stripped off his gloves, and gestured for her to start undressing as well. He watched her swallow, watched her lips become a thin, nervous line, watched as she gently tugged off her veil and gown, leaving her body bare, exposed for Eddie to admire and touch. She shivered when Eddie laid his hands on her, running his palms over her ribcage, over smoothened skin, fingertips tracing the ugly scars beneath her breasts, then calloused thumbs over her nipples. That spurred her into a high-pitched whining noise, which Eddie found he rather enjoyed, and he leaned forward, kissing her neck, then underneath her jaw gently. 

“You shiver so nicely for me, darling.” Eddie whispered into her milky skin, prompting a soft, fluttery moan from the depths of her chest. His hands ran up the soft curve of her inner thigh, she trembled, goosebumps forming on her arms and legs. She closed her eyes, resting her jaw on the pillow, letting Eddie have his way. 

If she thought she could get away with being unresponsive, she was mistaken. Eddie nuzzled her neck, kissing her all over, being gentle on his virgin wife. His lips roved down, kissing and sucking her nipples, his nose fondly brushing against her chest. She let out reedy whines, soft noises that she was trying to hold back, but she couldn’t hide anything from her husband.

He kissed over the pulse of her throat, sucking at her skin to try to make a hickey. “Sex is like a family, darling. It takes effort. It takes cooperation. I’m not going to rut you like a dog, my dear. You must participate.”

She cracked an eyelid, and Eddie noted how her eyes were red-rimmed. She must be nervous. His nervous virgin bride- of course. He could be so foolish sometimes, of course she was frightened, this was her first time! And Eddie didn’t like to brag, but he was pretty large, certainly enough to intimidate Waylon. 

“You’ll see, my love.” Eddie promised, smoothing a hand along her inner thigh. He leaned in, pressing one hand against her belly to keep her still, the other pulling apart her legs, which were straining to try and squeeze together. “Shh, darling, you have to relax. This will be the least painful part, so calm down and try to enjoy it.” He licked a stripe up her inner thigh, felt her abdomen muscles flex, felt the soft flesh of her thighs go taut. He sought to remedy her nervousness, and what better way than to get her prepared for him? 

He leaned in, licking his lips, and lapped at her outer folds shallowly, earning a whimper in response and a full-body tremble. He kissed her soft, quivering lips, running his mouth upwards to her clit, pulling her body closer to his as he licked and sucked it earnestly. Her whole body was shaking violently at this point, and through some of it she’d been thrashing, giving little gasps and whispered little ‘no!’s. Her toes were curling, her eyes tightly closed, and Eddie dove deeper into her, tongue swirling, tasting her, loving her.

“You’re ready, darling.” Eddie whispered to her, and she gave a high pitched whimper. 

“Eddie, Eddie, I don’t think- I don’t think I can d-do this-”

“Shh, darling. You’ll be fine.” 

Warm, velvety heat sheathed his head, the softness of her encircling his tip, he let out a low, long exhale through his nose, it was so good and it’d been so long since he’d put himself in anything so warm, so wonderful. He didn’t thrust into her, rather gripped her hips, held her up to him, and slowly inserted, intending on getting all the way to the base of his cock. She was twitching slightly, squirming, letting off loud, uncomfortable noises. She’d grow comfortable as they both adjusted to a rhythm, as he thrusted his hips deep inside her, as he came and his seed assured their family.

“Hold on, darling… This won’t take long, my love. I promise you.” He stroked her cheek. “I’m so sorry if it hurts, but you must bear some things, for my sake.” He gave her a soft smile, she gave a short sobbing noise in response, and he thumbed her lips, instructing her to ‘shh’. “Darling, please, don’t ruin this for me, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt something this good…” He stroked her hair, giving a short, sharp thrust in, until _all_ of him was buried inside that blissfully tight heat. She yelped, and he chuckled breathlessly, moving his hands to her hips, waiting a few moments for her to get adjusted to having his girth inside her. After the time he’d allowed was up, he started thrusting- rabbiting his hips to adjust her to the sensation without hurting her too badly, trying to adjust her without overloading her to the sensation. By all means, he was going the extra mile to make sure she was comfortable, but fat tears still rolled down her cheeks, she still made noises that were more sadness and pain than pleasure, and it almost annoyed him that she wasn’t even trying to let herself feel good. 

“Darling. I’m putting in an effort-” (his hips hadn’t ceased through his words, and he groaned, because she was so tight and lovely) “- And you need to, as well, my love. I’m not asking you to do anything physical- But I need you to try- and stop looking so miserable. I’ve just married you, darling, and I’d hate- If you turned out to be- A whore, all this time.”

“No!” She gasped, and he was pleased to see she was upset by this. “Eddie, I’m not- I’m sorry, it _hurts-”_

“I know it hurts, but I told you-” This time, his words were broken by heavy panting, and he could feel himself fast-approaching climax. It was embarrassingly soon, but if it would alleviate his wife’s suffering, then he’d get it over with quickly. “That you… Need to bear some things.”

She whimpered in response, and he decided to pick up the pace. He gripped her hips tightly, murmured “Here we go,” and really went to town. His hips snapped back and forth, thrusting into that heavenly heat, each thrust punctuated with the slap of his balls against her butt. Tears had come to her eyes again, fresh, and she cried out softly, but with pleasure or pain, Eddie couldn’t tell. Either way, he kept pace, pounding himself into her, giving her a deep kiss on the lips.

 _“Darling.”_ He growled, sensing his approaching orgasm. He didn’t miss her shiver at his tone, and he grinned broadly, giving her another deep, furious kiss. 

He slammed his hips into her one more time, spurting seed, trembling as he rode out his orgasm, as a white blur superimposed itself over everything, as pleasure overtook his body and made him shake. His darling didn’t orgasm- or, if she did, she showed no sign of it- and when Eddie tiredly drew out, making a movement to try to finish her off with his fingers or tongue, she curled up tightly in a ball and shook her head, mumbling to him, mumbling that it _hurt_ and she didn’t want to be touched right now.  
Eddie stared at her in concern for a moment- maybe he _had_ been a little too rough…

“Get some rest, darling.” Was all he finally managed to say, before getting up on slightly shaky feet and heading for his workshop.


	12. Running for Miles to Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon remained there, huddled in the gloom, as Eddie stepped in cautiously. “Darling?” He asked, voice tender. “Darling, please, come out… I know you’re fond of your running games, it’s how we met, after all… But you really should come out, my love. This is getting silly. You have to face your husband like an adult, not run like a child. Come out. We’ll talk about this…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not what you're expecting, I guarantee.
> 
> (Also, holy shit, I forgot there was an actual plot to all this)

“Dar-LING!” Eddie’s furious voice split the air. “Get BACK here!” Heavy boots sounded behind Waylon, and the computer tech grit his teeth, vaulting over an overturned bed, continuing his frantic sprint through the hallway. His dress billowed out behind him- part of why Waylon expected he made those long, long dresses of his, to cover Waylon’s bare feet and to hide his ugly wound from view. It was recovering nicely as of late, but in this single desperate, frantic sprint, he was fully aware of just how bad it would get now that he was stubbornly walking and running on it.

“Darling!” Eddie pleaded behind him- he was having some trouble keeping up with Waylon’s pace, even with his injury, dashing after Waylon only to be hindered by tall stacks of beds, or machinery, or heavy metal cabinets that blocked his path. Waylon ignored his pleas, ignored the burn in the arches of his feet, in his calves, the desperate soreness in his lungs and the raspy burn in his throat, the pulse pounding in his temples and in his ears and in his neck and in his heart, the pump of blood pervading throughout his whole body, a conscious throb in his entire being. Dizziness, lightheadedness, made the world spin, as did fear and the adrenaline seeping into his core.

“I only want to _love_ you!” Eddie could shout himself hoarse, but Waylon refused to give up, refused to stop to breathe or rest, he was going to run, he was going to get out. Enough had been enough. 

The tips of his toes stung- he hadn’t bound them in gauze, unlike the rest of his foot. He’d wanted them unhindered so he could grip, so he could run, so he could outpace Eddie and live the rest of his life outside the loony bin.

He couldn’t let himself be touched again. 

He wouldn’t let it happen, he’d sooner run into the huge giant and get killed, he’d sooner break his neck and legs falling, he’d rather Eddie take the ever-present blade and cut into him. Tears didn’t come as he ran, only because of how focused he was in fleeing, in getting away. He made a quick dash into a room, heard Eddie let out a cry of delight and triumph, and realized almost instantly that there was no way out- this was a thin hallway, he couldn’t whirl around and scrape by Eddie to try and find another way. There were no doors that Eddie wasn’t obstructing, he was too close to the room already. Stuck. Stuck.

Waylon slammed the door shut, looking around feverishly, and rammed his shoulder against a heavy-looking bookshelf, obstructing the door with it and a half-broken cabinet he found. When something slammed against it, Waylon jerked back, startled, but the door held, even against Eddie’s furious might. He splintered it inward, but the rest refused to budge. 

“Darling.” Eddie’s voice came from the other side, and he’d taken on an imploring, persuasive tone. “I’m not mad, my love, but you’re being ridiculous. Unbar the door, darling, _please.”_

Waylon was silent, and another sharp pound came from the other side of the door, a thump that Waylon could only guess meant that Eddie was throwing his whole body weight against it. Waylon stepped back, apprehensive- It wouldn’t last that long under Eddie’s assault, if he wasn’t going to lose interest like every other thing he’d tried this trick on. He’d break it off his hinges, tip aside the bookshelf and cabinet, and come for Waylon.

His heart was in his throat, his mouth dry, and he wondered, very briefly, if there was anything inside the room he could use as a weapon- Anything heavy, with a good grip to it. He looked around- the room was mostly bare, stripped of any and all objects, leaving him with a couple books, a broken shelf, and paper scattered around the room. 

He picked up the heaviest book and lurked to the side, while Eddie continued to ram himself against the door, hoarsely shouting promises to Waylon about how he would be better, how he would be a gentleman next time, how he was sorry, but women needed to suffer some things, how she was beautiful and he loved her.

The whole time, Waylon bit off the commentary he wanted to make, the snarlings of “I’m no more a woman than you are,” or “Leave me the fuck alone, you rapist creep!” being discarded in favor of silence. 

When the cabinet tipped over and the bookcase splintered into a heap of paper and wood, Waylon had to hold back a shriek of fear and surprise, trembling fingers gripping the heavy volume. His palms were slick with sweat, and he could barely hold on to it, and he began doubting if he had the courage to physically attack Eddie. When the man stepped in the room, Waylon crouched low to the ground and figured running was preferable to attacking him, setting down the book quietly.

Waylon remained there, huddled in the gloom, as Eddie stepped in cautiously. “Darling?” He asked, voice tender. “Darling, please, come out… I know you’re fond of your running games, it’s how we met, after all… But you really should come out, my love. This is getting silly. You have to face your husband like an adult, not run like a child. Come out. We’ll talk about this…” 

-

There was a finality about the way that Eddie closed the door behind him, taking off his gloves, his tender smile disgustingly sweet, disguising the viciousness that lay underneath. Waylon trembled as he drew closer, swallowing shallowly, not focusing on his intense blue eyes, but finding his gaze flickering from his sturdy chin to his ruined face to his powerful shoulders. He didn’t want to read the intent in his eyes, the heady, needy lust and the reverent tenderness that he knew would devolve into savagery the moment Waylon did something to tick him off. 

Eddie drew closer, and Waylon’s heart started pounding harder, the back of his throat dry, a lump starting to form. Recollection of last time came back: the nausea, the disconnect of feeling things that he knew he shouldn’t be feeling as a man, the sickening feeling of being impaled, of having something hot and huge stretch a hole he didn’t want to have. He didn’t have any male lovers before this, he’d never taken someone inside him, and the dysphoria that came with being fucked was jarring and nauseating. There was an acid burn in the back of his throat when he took Eddie’s length, and even now, before the man was even doing anything, it returned. 

He scooted back on the bed, moving away from Eddie as he drew near. 

“Oh, darling… Don’t worry. Are you still frightened from last time?” He smoothed one hand down Waylon’s calf, fear and revulsion almost making him gag. “Don’t worry. Your virginity is gone, my love, which will make this much, much easier. And if you’d like, I’ll spend a little more time preparing you…”

Waylon stiffened as hands brushed over his stomach, as one set itself firmly atop his abdomen, the other grabbing his thigh, spreading it to gain access to Waylon’s slit. The awful feeling of fear, vulnerability, of being exposed, even underneath the fluttery yellow dress, led to a fast-rising hysteria. Adrenaline surged through his system, the fight-or-flight instinct, and he grit his teeth, muscles clenching, ready to run or fight and possibly kill. Of course, fighting Eddie would be insane. Trying to tackle him would be like a motorcycle trying to run over a truck- Eddie could crush and overwhelm him without even trying.

When Eddie’s tongue reached his clit, Waylon gave a choked cry, a lightning bolt of pleasure jolting at the small of his back and racing up his spine. Not long after, revulsion followed, then hatred, hating he had a goddamn vagina instead of a dick, his breathing hitched, going high and short in the rapidly building hysteria. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, tried consoling himself. He’d saved himself and a couple other patients with this piece of anatomy. He just had to bear it, tolerate it, do what Thomas said- 

Squirming and panting occupied most of the minutes Eddie was eating him out; honestly, Waylon wasn’t sure how long it was, only that it was too long and it felt really, _really_ good, but the pleasure was constantly interrupted by bouts of queasiness and struggling.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Eddie smiled and pulled back, huffing for breath, his lips and chin wet from going at Waylon earnestly for so long. 

“I think you’re ready for me now, darling.”

The tip pressed at him, Eddie’s warm hands at his hips, and Waylon’s throat went dry, he could barely _breathe,_ but when he did it was high-pitched and frantic. His fingers clawed at the sheets, and he squirmed, trying to get away from the insistent press, tears spilling over his cheeks so the world was blurry and his eyes stung. 

“Almost,” Eddie sighed, closing his eyes in bliss as he pushed deeper, and Waylon could bear it no longer, his mind was going to tear itself to shreds.

 _“NO! NO! GET OFF! GET OFF ME!”_ Waylon screamed, grabbing at Eddie’s hands and trying to pull them off, nails ripping at thick fingers and drawing blood, Eddie hissed in surprise, eyes snapping open to look at Waylon in complete and total confusion. He’d withdrawn his hand on instinct, which gave Waylon just enough leverage to wiggle free from both his other hand and cock and fall a foot from the bed to the floor. He scrambled up, onto his feet, grabbed the camcorder on the nightstand, and bolted for the door, flinging it open and rushing out into the hall. Eddie gave a furious snarl, and pounded after Waylon.

“YOU TEASE! GET BACK HERE! WE’RE NOT _DONE!”_

-

“…Come out. We’ll talk about this…” Eddie’s slow prowl into the room was deliberate, Waylon knew. How the man thought he could console his ‘bride’ through gentleness, then proceed to violate Waylon as thoroughly and harshly as physically possible, was beyond Waylon. It took a person who knew the mind of a misogynistic killer with a romance problem.

He brought up his camera, tracking Eddie’s progress as he circled slowly through the darkened room. As soon as he was far enough away from the door, Waylon sprung to his feet and sprinted for it, racing out of the room and listening to Eddie’s frustrated, exasperated roar. 

“You’re only perfect provided you’re with _me,_ darling!” He reminded Waylon with a shout as he chased him. “Do you really want to go back to the sluts!? Once they know about you, what you _have,_ my love, you’ll be begging to come back to my gentle care!” 

_Gotta run gotta hide gotta run gotta hide-_

Ah! A room!

He turned, bolted into it, and slammed the door, shoving up a case of junk behind it to halt Eddie’s advancement. That would keep him held for much longer than the bookshelf.

When he turned, he was surprised to find three patients holed up in the room. Thomas, one he didn’t know, but had a huge growth on his face and only one eye, and Jimmy, the one patient who’d survived the Groom’s brutal mutilations. 

“Bride.” One-eye snarled softly, rising from his crouch and approaching him. Waylon backed against the door. Oh, God, oh _God,_ had he escaped Eddie to find death here-?

“Thomas!” His voice pitched in fear, and he shot a desperate look at the old man. He only shook his head, and rose himself. 

“Don’t make this difficult.” He sighed quietly, and even Jimmy rose to help. “We can’t risk this, Bride. I’m sorry.”

“Wait, no no no-”

One-eye started shoving at the heavy metal case, grunting loudly as he fought to move it, while Thomas and Jimmy held him still. Waylon struggled and shouted, calling them all kinds of slurs, only to have the door be thrown open and Waylon thrown into Eddie’s arms. The door snapped shut, heavy metal grinding indicating that he wasn’t going to be getting through there anytime soon.

“Darling.” Eddie sighed, cradling Waylon to his chest. “I’m relieved you’re okay, that you’ve stopped playing your silly games and returned to me…” He thumbed Waylon’s cheek, tilting up his chin and forcing the tech to look at him. “Darling, my darling, what am I going to do with you? You’re so keen on running off and leaving me, and you loathe intimacy… Of course, we’re going to finish what we started, regardless.” His fingers tightened at Waylon’s back, and he winced as blunt nails dug into his skin. “I love you, with all of my heart, but it’s becoming clear that you aren’t putting the same effort into our relationship, into our marriage.”

“Eddie, I-”

Without any warning, a man dropped down from a ventilation shaft overhead.

The grate hit Eddie on the head and shoulder, and Waylon’s jaw dropped- it wasn’t a patient, or a doctor, or a guard. No, the man who dropped from the ceiling wore a jacket, jeans, and clutched a camera in a bloody hand. His dark brown eyes were intense, boring into Waylon’s, and he barked a single word: 

“RUN!”

Waylon stood there for a moment, trying to process, while Eddie turned to the new arrival. Waylon could tell from the slope of his shoulders and the sound of his breath that he was _pissed,_ and pissed meant that the only man he’d seen in this shithole who wasn’t _from_ this shithole would be dead. He couldn’t let that happen, he couldn’t- This guy might be his only chance at salvation! 

“Oh, shit.” The new arrival rasped, “Oh shit oh shit oh shi-” He took a step towards the wall while Eddie prepared to pounce. 

Waylon wavered for a moment, frantically wondering what to do, and the man, surprisingly nimble, skirted around behind Eddie, managing to avoid a fatal stabbing and getting Eddie to embed his knife into the wall, grabbing Waylon by the hand. “Let’s GO, man! We don’t have time to fucking waste, that psycho is gonna kill us!”

Waylon shot a look at Eddie, who yanked his knife out of the wall, bellowing at the top of his lungs, “DARLING! Get away from that man!”

And he bolted with the stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next four chapters have been planned- Keep in mind, planned, but not written, or even drafted. The general idea has been hammered out, and we're looking at a good five or six chapters after this one.


	13. The Troubled Trio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Waylon. Waylon Park.”
> 
> “Holy fucking shit! _You’re_ Waylon Park?” Miles jolted forward, staring at the man. “You’re the whistleblower! Oh my God, I thought you would’ve- I dunno, gotten out, escaped by now! Holy flipping hell, you’ve been here all this time? I thought you’d dropped off of the face of the fucking planet! I tried to contact you only a billion times afterwards for more info, but you didn’t respond, and your wife said-”
> 
> “Lisa?” Waylon asked sharply. 
> 
> “Yeah, Lisa, she said you were here! I tried snooping around earlier, but I got kicked the fuck out. I waited a little bit, a month, until it cooled down, and I noticed that there weren’t any guards posted this time, so I snuck in, and now… I’m in this fucking mess. God… I’ve been here for less than a day, but you’ve been here for fucking… All that time, Jesus, I’m so sorry.”
> 
> “It’s not your fault, uh… What’s your name?”
> 
> “Miles. Miles Upshur.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was really fucking fun to write from Miles' POV.

The huge guy with a knife gave chase, but he wasn’t a match for their speed. Miles and the dude in the dress moved in tandem, vaulting over overturned beds, one of them shoving at something blocking their way while the other watched their back, skirting through rooms with dresses (probably where the guy had gotten his), sewing machines, all manner of material. It took less than ten minutes to lose their pursuer in all the chaos, and they both eventually slowed down to a gentle trot, then a walk.

“We can talk freely.” The dress guy said finally, panting for breath. “Nobody… Nobody’s around here anymore. Eddie got rid of them all.”

Miles thought back to the huge muscular guy with the knife. He believed it. 

“Been meaning to ask. What’s with the dress, dude? I’ve seen some fucked up stuff here, but that’s a new one.”

“Eddie- The tall guy, with the knife, the bow tie.”

“Yeah. Been meaning to ask about him, too.” 

“Well, he- He’s delusional. You know. A psychopath. He wants- A bride. So, he…” The dude in the dress swallowed, running a hand through his short blond hair. “… Makes them. Out of men. He wants to have children, so he cuts away… Everything that isn’t womanly. And he, uh, puts me in dresses.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Miles blinked, trying to picture that and shuddering unpleasantly. He wished he hadn’t thought about it. “Wait. Does that mean you- How long have you been here?”

The guy rubbed his eye, massaging it gently. “I don’t keep track of the days very well. Four weeks? A month? It’s been a long, long time.”

“Do you still have your-”

“Never had one in the first place.” A bit of strain touched his voice, clearly a sore subject. Miles blinked at him- He was masculine, the shape of his jaw and slope of his shoulders, well- Maybe he was a little feminine, but he definitely wasn’t a woman. It suddenly hit him, and he felt like the dumbest guy alive.

“You’re transgendered?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, Jesus. And you’ve been playing a woman for… What, fucking, a month? That can’t be easy.” He shook his head. He still remembered the talk he’d had with a guy who was designated female at birth, how he explained just how dysphoria felt, how his parents had been assholes his entire life, and he’d attempted suicide on multiple occasions. That came for a piece on a company who’d been outing gay and transgendered workers to the public and subsequently firing them. At the time, it hadn’t been the most fun work.

He thought he’d prefer listening to them speak about their troubles at that particular company rather than be here, in the bloody, hellish asylum, though.

“No.” The dude said tiredly. “It’s not. You caught me in the middle of running away.”

“Oh. Well. You’re welcome for helping you out.” Miles raised his camera, peering into the hallway ahead. “Clear. There’s a desk ahead, though, don’t trip over it. So, was that the first time you’ve-?”

“Run? No, but he gets angry very quickly, so I learned to stop. I ran away three times before the lesson sunk in. It’s been three weeks since I’ve tried to run.”

“That’s fucking bullshit.” Miles muttered. “Fucking… Rapist douchebag.” 

Miles caught the soft smile that spread over the dress guy’s face, and he turned back to the hallway, inwardly pleased he’d managed to make the guy smile.

“How’d you know I wasn’t like the other patients?” The other guy asked after a short time, hopping over the desk with ease. “That I wasn’t going to kill you or anything.”

“A hunch.”

“And you trusted a hunch?” He asked in disbelief. “If I were like Manera, or Trager, I could’ve killed you!”

“I’m an investigative reporter. I have really good hunches.” He said back, giving a winning smile. “By the way, didn’t manage to catch your name.” 

“Waylon. Waylon Park.”

“Holy fucking shit! _You’re_ Waylon Park?” Miles jolted forward, staring at the man. “You’re the whistleblower! Oh my God, I thought you would’ve- I dunno, gotten out, escaped by now! Holy flipping hell, you’ve been here all this time? I thought you’d dropped off of the face of the fucking planet! I tried to contact you only a billion times afterwards for more info, but you didn’t respond, and your wife said-”

“Lisa?” Waylon asked sharply. 

“Yeah, Lisa, she said you were here! I tried snooping around earlier, but I got kicked the fuck out. I waited a little bit, a month, until it cooled down, and I noticed that there weren’t any guards posted this time, so I snuck in, and now… I’m in this fucking mess. God… I’ve been here for less than a day, but you’ve been here for fucking… All that time, Jesus, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, uh… What’s your name?”

“Miles. Miles Upshur.” 

“Oh! I remember you.” Waylon blinked. “We met at that press conference- Right?” 

“Right.” Miles confirmed. “Anyway… I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner, I didn’t know things would go to hell so quickly.”

“Still isn’t your fault,” Waylon said shortly, and Miles figured he was probably done talking for now. 

They wandered around for a long, long time. They watched rats scurry away from them as they moved, saw cluttered papers strewn about, broken skeletons of beds and desks, found several boarded-off rooms of the female ward, which they thoroughly explored in silence, finding nothing but a couple scraps of paper, one of which being a scrap of paper with a shakily scribbled poem on it, which Waylon said reminded him of a poem he’d already collected, titled ‘The Groom’. Apparently there was a literate patient running around leaving rhymes. 

 

“The screams of those around,  
The torturous echoed sound,  
Drawing near, footsteps pound,  
The man is a wife-seeking hound. 

Then the screams did stop,  
The Groom had closed his shop,  
Found a bride without something to chop,  
No blood and tears did he mop.

And so we run in peace  
Our souls have felt release.” 

 

There were two more lines, but despite Waylon and Miles’ best attempts to read them, they proved illegible, scrawled by a shaky hand and sprayed by a slash of blood. 

“This is bullshit.” Miles declared, tucking the note into one of his jacket pockets, which Waylon noted was already stuffed with paper. He flopped down against a wall, folding his legs and arms. “Christ, I’m _exhausted._ Think Gluskin can get us in here?”

“I don’t think so. He’s never taken me here before- I’m not sure we’re even in his territory anymore.”

“Good. You mind if I nap?”

“You’re going to sleep _now?”_ Waylon’s voice was reproachful, and Miles was reminded of a nagging mother. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m fucking tired.” He threw a crumpled-up ball of paper at him. “Been running around for twelve hours straight. I haven’t rested before this, man, I need to sleep. My legs are fucking shaking and I can’t see straight anymore. You keep guard, and if anything goes wrong, you wake me up, okay? Hopefully I don’t fall over if we need to run.” 

Waylon exhaled deeply, and Miles arched an eyebrow at him. “I’ll take watch, then.”

“Good to hear.” Miles muttered, tucking his chin to his chest. “Promise not to trip me if we do end up needing to get out of here?” 

He was rewarded with a slap on the shoulder, and Miles grinned at him without opening his eyes. “Ice cold.”

Waylon’s response was a snort, and Miles fell into a deep sleep.

He didn’t have nightmares, surprisingly enough. In fact, he didn’t dream at all, and he quite enjoyed the feeling of restfulness when he woke up, his bone-weary body restored for now, until it he had to do another twelve-hour marathon. 

Unfortunately, when he opened his gummy, sleep-heavy eyes, he woke up to Waylon chatting it up with someone else. The dude was tall, muscular, and rivaled Eddie for physical build and scariness. In the darkness, he could barely see the guy. His uniform and the whites of his eyes were really the only thing that gave him away, and Miles briefly reflected on how that was the first black patient he’d seen before he realized, and that was a little strange, but, oh wait, it was a fucking _patient._

“Waylon! What the fucking- What’s he doing here?” 

Waylon started, halting in his conversation. “Oh! Miles- Miles, you’re awake! Miles, Boone, Boone, Miles.”

“You’re the journalist.” The man’s voice was soft and rumbly, surprisingly quiet for such a big guy. “Thank God. I’m Boone Mobley, been in this asylum for two years. I’m one of the lucky ones, who hasn’t been here for too long. But I’m a primary source of information. I can testify when it comes to taking Murkoff to court for this fucking disgrace of a mental institution. At this point, I don’t fucking care about what Murkoff can do to me in retaliation. I don’t have family, and I don’t care for my life anymore. I want to get out, I want to bring these guys down.”

Waylon was grinning like an idiot, and it made Miles feel even grumpier. He liked the patient’s passion, but he was a _patient_ for a reason. 

“What’s wrong with him?” He asked Waylon gruffly, and the tech guy scoffed. 

“Hallucinations.” Boone supplied readily. “I see things. Hear things. Schizophrenia, I was told, but it was a mild case, and this… This fucking hellhole made it worse. I only heard things before. It- It used to be better. But now it’s just-”

Waylon actually patted the guy on the back. 

Jesus, how had the guy managed to survive a month here, when he was as soft as a newborn’s ass? 

Miles eventually sighed. “You’re not gonna let us leave him, are you?” 

“Miles, _please.”_ Waylon pleaded. “He’s bigger and stronger than both of us. We can’t fight them, but he might be able to. And… Jesus, Miles, he’s like me. He’s a victim of this place, not the villain behind it.”

“Fucking- Fine. If it’ll shut you up. But we need to get moving- How long did I sleep for?”

“I stole a watch off a corpse.” Boone offered. He went up to a window, squinting at the watch face. “It’s five AM right now, so… three hours.”

“What the goddamn hell did you guys talk about for three hours?” Miles rose and stretched, groaning in pain at the soreness in his thighs and calves. He knew he should’ve kept going jogging in the morning. 

“The state of the universe. Eddie. The way you snore like a dying walrus.”

Boone chuckled, but Miles did not, instead huffing in offense and heading towards a gap in the wall that led to another room. Upon squeezing in the gap, it became obvious that the room was in shambles, an entire gaping circle in the center the crown jewel of just how shitty the place was.

“Alright, gentlemen, I say we get moving.” Miles said, staring down at the deep, dark pit. “Who wants to go first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a comment whore pls leave comments


	14. Five Finger Fillet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, shit.” Miles whispered, the sound tight and fearful. “Oh, goddamned motherfucking Christ, why now, why now, why now!?”
> 
> “Little pig!” Walker bellowed, and slammed down the door with his shoulder in one sharp, swift gesture. Boone was the first to scramble backwards, through the gap they’d come from, running back towards the bathrooms. 
> 
> It was then he realized that this was no better a plan of escape than running towards Walker. Now they were trapped. Waylon pressed himself to the wall along with Miles, and Boone stared up at the ruined face, at milky white eyes and a huge, bulking form, at limbs that’d just torn a man apart in front of his very eyes. 
> 
> “Little pigs, little pigs.” Walker bared his pearly white teeth. “No more escape.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter I've written for this fic, closing in at exactly 5900 words- And for good reason. This is the most plot-driven chapter in the entire thing, after all, and a personal favorite when it comes to this story.

Boone felt a flicker of irritation rush through him as Miles’ gaze slowly left the pit, roving slowly to land on him. Of course he was expected to jump in and risk his life for the group- He was their meat shield, their protection. Expendable. There was a pressure in his head, pushing against his skull, behind his eyes, a pulsing pain that he rubbed at to try and alleviate. Miles saw him as no more than his camera- A documentation device. Of course, there was also the possibility that the journalist liked his camera better. After all, he’d probably known it for longer.

There were bright yellow eyes in the shadows, swirling crazily, dark fingers grasping from the pit, and he stared at them, entranced.

“Uh… Boone, do you want me to go first?” Waylon suggested quietly, snapping Boone from his trance. “I think I run the fastest, so I can get out of trouble before the rest of you.”

“I’m stronger...” Boone said dismissively, fingers leaving his temples. The question was, were the things down there real or not? Miles or Waylon would’ve said something about the grasping talonlike claws, or the villainous yellow eyes, or the wheezing moans and snapping teeth, as the writhing mass in the shadows grew more and more impatient. They were a hallucination. They had to be- He squeezed his eyes shut as images flickered over his eyes, the ink-blot tests and a memory of a dry, cottony mouth, eyes forced open, head restrained, the snap of metal, the cries of himself and other patients, as the horrid figures leaned in and their bodies danced in the corners of his eye, their talons inches from his throat and intending to maim.

“Yes, but we haven’t rested in a while. Miles?” Waylon prompted just as gently.

“If it’s Gluskin, you fucking jump down and help me, you hear? I like my dick where it is.” Miles shuddered uncomfortably. “I’ll fuckin’ scream ‘GLUSKIN’ if he’s down there.”

“Got it.” Waylon nodded, kneeling and staring down at Miles intently as the reporter swung his legs over the gap, carefully descending until his fingers were the only thing still above the pit. Miles stared down, and Boone watched in vague fascination and horror as the things clawed at him, making awful wailing noises. Miles didn’t seem to care or even notice, so that was a point in the _hallucination_ category.

_But what if Waylon and Miles were both hallucinations? What if nothing was real? What if there wasn’t even a Mount Massive, or a Colorado, or a United States, or even Boone himself?_

Boone shoved those thoughts aside, gritting his teeth as he resisted the temptation to reach out and touch Waylon, to ground himself with the knowledge that they were there. His hallucinations weren’t passive, his hallucinations didn’t speak, and they weren’t as colorful or varied. Waylon and Miles were real, he was real, Murkoff was real, the demons in the pit weren’t.

“The drop’s not that far,” Miles said back, not shouting for fear of provoking something in the blackness. “But it’s completely fucking black. Thank God we had the sense to cameras with night vision, or we’d be stuck here. Okay. Well. We’re going to use the buddy system. I’m with Waylon.”

Boone curled his lip. “And me?”

“Right. Uh…”

“He doesn’t have a camera, Miles. No night vision.” Waylon reminded the journalist. “Why don’t we all just stay together? Boone, keep a hand on our shoulders, and no one wanders off.”

“There was a lot less inventory-managing when I was on my own.” Miles grumbled. “Now I have to make sure both you idiots don’t wander off.”

A flicker of irritation passed through Boone, but he shoved it down. Miles was an ass, that was true, but it must’ve been a defense mechanism. Some patients broke down when they were shown horror, some of them remained the same, some toughened up into brutal hunters. Miles was the third, definitely, Waylon was more or less the second, and Boone…

He didn’t want to be the first, but he thought he was, although he’d never tell his companions. Miles mistrusted him already, and the knowledge that Boone’s hallucinations were getting worse would only freak the crabby bastard out. Waylon would be overly sympathetic and attempt to comfort him, as he always did. Waylon needed something to assist and guide for his own coping mechanism, a way to deal with the aftershocks Eddie’s hyperdominance. Miles- Well, he hadn’t known Miles for more than three hours, but he guessed he was probably a persistent bastard who never gave up. Most people who worked for his type of job were. The asylum and its lunatics had aggravated him into a swift, venomous dick, quick to curse and probably the first to ditch the others in an every-man-for-himself move.

Miles finally let go and dropped into the darkness below, feet making a loud noise upon impacting the ground, Miles giving a grunt for breath. It looked almost like the creatures had swallowed him- But, no, he’d just descended into the blackness, they weren’t real.

“It’s safe,” Miles called after a moment. “There’s nothing down here but dust and sadness.”

“Boone, do you want me to go first?” Waylon asked kindly. Boone shook his head, shrugging him off, staring down at the screaming creatures, their claws scraping at the air, their eyes wicked and yellow, gaping mouths gnashing.

They weren’t real. And if they were...

He didn’t fear death.

He lowered himself into the pit, watching fingers try to snatch at him, to rip and tear and break and bite. He sucked in a deep breath, steeled himself, and dropped in after the asshole reporter.

He landed hard, letting out a pained wheeze, not knowing when he was going to collide with the ground. There’d been a moment of fear previous, a jolt in the pit of his belly where he thought he might be falling forever, and maybe even longer than that, but the agony in his knees and feet proved that he was here, and that being here really, _really_ hurt.

There was another thump as Waylon went down after him, a groan that was considerably less shocked and pained.

“Where are you two?” Boone whispered. He thought he saw eyes in the gloom, but couldn’t be certain. When he checked again, they were gone.

“Right here.” Waylon laid his hand on Boone’s shoulder, and he jumped, letting out a hiss between his teeth.

“Don’t startle me like that,” Boone fumbled blindly, eventually grabbing Waylon by the shoulder. “Where’s the sleezeball?”

“Ha-ha.” Miles said unamusedly, stepping forth. “On your left. I’m gonna touch your shoulder, don’t jump.”

Boone forced himself to relax, barely flinching as a cold hand came in contact with his skin. He patted along Miles’ arm, trying to find the guy’s shoulder. He squeezed it slightly, and he noticed Miles tense.

“Alright. We did all that bullshit, we’re in the hole, now we gotta get out and find Boone a friggin’ camera.” Miles muttered. “I don’t really appreciate guys feeling me up, even if it’s just my arm.”

“I don’t think girls have ever done it, so how do you know if it’s just guys?” Boone murmured.

“Oh, shut up.” Miles said back in a low snap, while Waylon shushed them reproachfully.

“You can store the playful banter, guys, I don’t wanna get my head ripped clean off or get cut open.” Waylon said nervously. “I suggest, ‘til we find a way out, that we all take a pact of silence, unless one of us is in trouble.”

Boone swung his head towards Miles, frowning, and although he couldn’t see the journalist, he guessed he did the same.

“Okay. Now, we walk.” Waylon instructed quietly, and the three of them inched into the darkness.

-

Eddie was furious.

No- He was _beyond_ furious.

He’d put his effort, his love, his strength, his whole being into their marriage, into making them the closest of lovers, the best couple in the world, since their souls were twined together, their love eternal. His darling had been the one. She’d stayed the longest, had shown her love at times, when her touches lingered on the scabbing part of his face, when he kissed her gently and she closed her eyes, when she straightened her back under his touch and arched proudly.

Yes, she loved him.

So what had driven her away without him? He puzzled over this as he stalked through bathrooms with broken, jagged mirrors and damaged stalls, when he let the floorboards creak and groan under his weight as he roamed the halls, when he ghosted past machinery, dresses, and sewing machines, opening and closing doors on a whim. He felt- numbed, a cold pit of fire burning in his gut, rage at the whore who had taken his love from him, convinced her to flee in the midst of his heart to heart with her, his one true love.

What the hell was he doing? Moping around his territory like a fool. His darling, if with that whore, would be focused on leaving the Asylum. The whore hadn’t been dressed as a patient- he must’ve been trying to lure her away, to the outside world, so Eddie would never have her. No. No. He wouldn’t let her become ensnared under the snakish charms of a bastard- He would find her, he would take her home, where she belonged, and he would show her that she belonged with him, now and forever, and even beyond that.

Not to the whore.

He left his territory for the first time in a long, long while. Many, many weeks. He needed her back. He craved her touch, craved to hold her heart and her body once more. That spurned his hunting- He broke into an abandoned wing, slipping through a gap with extreme difficulty, finding a scrap of the dress he’d sewn caught on the wood within. A short period of wandering led him into a gap on the floor, a round space of about twelve feet. Without hesitation, he jumped in- His darling had her clever little camera that lit up the darkness without need of a physical light, so chances were, she’d gone down here as well.

He didn’t have one, but he’d been stumbling through the dark for months, now. He had a predator’s senses, a keen eye and ear and a readiness for combat.

Most of all, though, he had prey in mind, and a sharpened blade.

-

“BOONE, FUCKING RUN!” Miles roared into his ear. Nails dug sharply into his skin, leaving crescent moons, but the patient simply stared, in overwhelmed horror and shock, as the biggest creature he’d ever seen came charging towards him. He recognized the person in the very back of his brain, the part concerned with rational thought and stubbornly focused on being sane. Chris Walker.

“LITTLE PIGS!” The massive man screamed, and Boone was jerked roughly forward by Miles. He started, realizing the imminent danger like a sudden blow to the head, and then he was sprinting along with Waylon and Miles, forcing his aching legs to keep moving, because the alternative was death. 

Walker roared in frustration as Waylon and Miles squeezed through the gap- He managed to get one tiny, blood-soaked hand on Boone, scraping his palm, and Boone was only distantly aware of Waylon screaming hysterically in his ear, of Miles’ furious and desperate shouting, of Walker’s snarly breath and string of curse words as the journalist and bride managed to jerk Boone to the other side.

“There’s always another way around!” Walker shouted, and Boone squirmed in discomfort, as the sound made his ears ring unpleasantly. “I’ll find you, kill all three of you whores!”

“Bite me, fatass!” Came Miles’ sharp jibe as soon as Walker turned his back. “This is the seventh time I’ve escaped, dickhead, I’m not dying to you anytime soon!”

“Why do you antagonize him like that?” Waylon sounded slightly pained, and Boone felt a slight pang of sympathy.

“Oh, what? Like if I start being nice he won’t want to kill us?” Miles sneered. “Waylon, we’re fighting for survival, and we survived! We trash-talk and celebrate, idiot, that’s just how it is.”

Waylon shook his head darkly. “He’s going to find us again- If being here has taught me anything, its that no matter where you go, the patients will _always_ find you again.”

“Then what’re we supposed to do about Eddie?” Boone asked suddenly, making both Waylon and Miles blink. Boone pressed on, ignoring their confusion. “He has to be hunting us by now. Either to kill all of us, or kill Miles and me and take Waylon back.”

“Great. How many psychos have we got chasing us now? Two? Three? ” Miles groaned. “I thought people didn’t leave their fucking territories. Isn’t that how it works? I was chased by a couple patients, and the only reason they stopped was because I left their realm of jurisdiction. Come to think of it, I was entering Walker’s turf, so maybe it only applies when there’s a big fucking freak to back it up.”

Waylon jostled Miles gently with his shoulder, admonishing. Miles stuck out his tongue and shrugged the shorter man off.

“Boone, how’re you feeling?” Waylon asked as they crept forward, light filtering in through dusty windows as they traveled slowly down a hallway. It was bright enough to see with the naked eye, but still dark enough to have them keep their hands on their cameras.

“Better.” He hadn’t seen or heard anything out of the ordinary yet, whether shadow-men or horrific noises. “Nothing unusual. It’s weird, actually.”

“We can only hope that means you’re getting better.” Waylon gave him an encouraging smile, and Boone found himself smiling back. He didn’t think that was true, not even a little bit, but Waylon’s genuine kindness was refreshing.

There was a slow silence as they moved forward- Boone’s adrenaline ebbed. Miles’ jittery, excitable motions and hitched breathing ceased, and Waylon’s high-pitched panting slowly died, along with the shaking hands roving over Boone’s back becoming steadier. The journalist and computer tech were coasting the wave of adrenaline, the two made weak as its aftershocks made their legs ache. Boone was used to it all- He was used to the running and the fear, long before he’d ever entered the asylum.

The white kids liked to chase him home after school, throwing stones and shouting slurs. He was good with surging adrenaline and terror, as well as the sting of pain and the tenderness of old bruises. When he’d been diagnosed as a schizophrenic, it’d gotten even worse. The tauntings of lunatic, crazy, psycho, the jeering and violence, the whispering voices growing louder. Eventually he assaulted a man. Didn’t wind up in jail, but instead in a mental institution. Mount Massive. They said they would do good. They did no such thing. He ran here, too. Bare feet slapping on the ground, splinters lodged in his toes, bruises on the arch of his foot, the scent of metallic blood in his nose and the sticky, half-dried stuff on his hands, stuck between the crevasses of his fingers. He’d been running for five weeks constantly, from Waylon’s pretend-husband, from Walker, from John, from Trager, from Manera. 

This time, though, they were hunting him for hunger, or for fierce loyalty, or prevention, or sheer anger, not for his skin color or his insanity. He thought he liked that better, even if death was a worse consequence than rocks being slung.

He no longer feared death. But he feared the rocks and the taunts. 

“There’s a patient curled up on the floor,” Miles reported. Apparently the cocky dick’s adrenaline high had gone, because he was keeping his voice down and spoke with the clearness of someone with a level head. “I don’t know if he’s hostile or not.” 

“It’s best to assume they are before going further.” Boone crept forward, in front of the two, flexing his arms and approaching the figure. When it didn’t lunge at first, he straightened, edging closer, only to shout as it leapt at him. Boone punched it in the jaw- And it looked so much like an it, with cloudy, marblesque eyes, teeth jutting out with no visible mouth or nose present. Boone acted on instinct, whacking it in the jaw with images of children bearing stones dancing behind his eyes. The patient was flung into the wall by the force, giving a sickening smack and crunch, and it let out a muffled, inhuman scream, pushing itself up back onto its feet and fleeing the hall, gyrating so badly Boone thought it would fall over again. 

“That thing is going to attract every patient in the Asylum.” Miles cursed softly. “Shit.” 

“Calm down.” Boone ordered, rubbing his temples. The scream hurt his ears, and the thrumming against his skull grew rougher. “It ran off. They’re attracted to _it,_ not us. So long as we keep away with it, we’ve got extra protection. It’ll lure Walker and Manera and whoever else away in search of the screaming, which means we’re okay.” 

“So long as we keep away from it,” Waylon pitched in solemnly. 

“And we will,” Boone soothed, his headache starting to pound again. Distorted shapes began flickering across his eyes, clouds of black that bubbled and formed into a thing only to fall back into a darkened, chaotic shape. “Come on. We’ll double back, find another door, and not head in its direction.” 

“Good thinking, Boone!” Waylon shot a glance at Miles, a gloating I-told-you-we-should-keep-him.

Miles responded with a glare, an unamused just-you-wait. 

They vaulted over a broken desk, slipped through the gap that they’d gone through to escape Walker, exploring rooms together. Batteries were snatched, files were collected, dead and shivering patients, tormented beyond reason, remained where they were at. Miles was paging through a long patient report, making soft, interested murmurs under his breath, the lull of silence and peacefulness making him forget just where they were and how dangerous it was. Unless Boone had misread him, and he was still ready for fight-or-flight under that deceptively calm and unconcerned demeanor. He didn’t think so, though, because he cuffed him on the shoulder as a reminder to get moving and he was completely unperturbed. 

“Does anyone know where we actually are?” Waylon asked timidly after a long while of shuffling through rooms containing the skeletons of beds and soiled mattresses, along with scraps of paper, boarded-up windows, and blood. Waylon grimaced as he passed a mauled corpse, nose and cheek ripped away, and Boone reflected on how he was still disturbed and disgusted by bodies, even after hanging around the depravity of the Asylum for so long. It spoke to Waylon’s determined innocence, and Boone wished that he could be that feeling, that emotionless. He'd seen Thomas's brother's corpse, had felt nothing when finding a locker to put his body in, finding a lock and fastening it, lest someone try to jam themselves in with the rotting, festering thing. 

“Shh!” Miles held up a hand abruptly for silence and stillness, peering into the gloom and raising his camera. “Oh, shit, it’s that thing again!” 

He staggered back, flattening himself against the wall as the screaming patient Boone had attacked rushed through, arms flailing pathetically, feet pounding and a high-pitched scream emanating from its throat, muffled by its lack of mouth. Instinctually, Waylon scrambled under a bed, feverish in his movements. Boone cursed and looked around- he wouldn’t be able to fit under there, he could just barely squeeze in on his own, much less with Waylon in there. Miles scuttled under another bed like a frightened crab, and Boone stepped back as an old patient limped in, his gray hair stringy, his entire body covered in a thin brown robe, a tattered and bloody patient uniform underneath it. He was feeble, frail, and Boone was forcefully reminded of Thomas as he stared at the pitiful excuse for a man.

“Help me…” The patient whimpered, and Boone edged closer, cautious, but certainly not against adding another member to their party. The more the merrier, and although he hated that he thought of it, if they were being chased, they could trip the old man and have him be a distraction while the rest of them escaped. Optimistically, it would be Miles that he tripped up, or even more optimistically, none of them at all, but when push came to shove, he was going to help himself, Waylon, and, although he hated to admit it, even Miles, over this old man.

The old guy’d beaten all the odds anyway, and survived, although he was this ancient, older and scrawnier than Thomas. It was quite amazing, to be honest, someone like him shouldn’t be able to outrun anything, outsmart anything, or last out for the time he had, especially not with a limp that terribly pronounced. 

“Help me…” 

Boone realized it a split second too late, when he was too close to run. 

_“Buddy!”_

Trager- Oh, God, it was Trager- lunged at Boone, unsheathing a saw from where he’d concealed it on his belt, and Boone was roughly smacked in the forehead with the butt of it, falling, a swift kick from Trager’s bare foot smashed into the side of his head, making him cry out in agony. His last thought before going completely out of it was somewhere along the lines of “Ah, shit.” 

A final kick, right in the nose, assured his unconsciousness.

-

“Do you know how many patients in the Asylum hunt in packs?” Trager’s voice was conversational, and the squeak of faucets came to his ears, the slight rush of water piercing the vague fog in Boone’s head. He groaned softly, trying to get up, away, as instinct dictated, but he found himself bound. He recognized a wheelchair, the feel of it- He’d been escorted in plenty, during mad ravings when the creatures he saw were biting him, clawing him, breaking him, doing unspeakable and inhuman things to his body. When he tried to rationalize it wasn’t real, a very real shock of pain would skitter up his nervous system from wherever one of the shadow-creatures had hurt him, and it would be so, so hard to acknowledge that it was all a hallucination. The best he could do during one of those was curling up, teeth clenched, tears leaking out from tightly closed eyes, bubbling swirls of the Morphogenic Engine program burned across his eyelids, constantly moving and wriggling, ceaseless torment. 

The point was, he was bound by the hands and ankles, and it was the wheelchair’s fault. 

“A lot. Actually, I’d say it’s a majority strategy, going in packs. It assures survival, it’s a primal instinct. We have a couple lone wolves…” 

It was a more-or-less bland room, a broken mirror in front him, series of sinks, blood and viscera spattering the room, bloody footprints and bootprints marking the floor, as well as the tracks of the wheelchair’s wheels. Trager was dressed traditionally, the wrinkles marking his body as distinctly as anything. He wore his broken-spectacle and creepy doctor mask, and he had that stupid fucking apron tied around his legs, spattered with probably month-old blood. Other than that, naked. Standard procedure for Trager.

“... But, yes, there’s a majority that are pack-hunters. Those that are sane enough to group up, that is.” He chuckled, something sinister about the sound. “But, do you want to know something? For a place that houses the greatest lunatics in the world, we don’t have a very diverse subsection of people. That’s what makes you so special, buddy.” He ran one hand down Boone’s forearm, and Boone shivered in revulsion and apprehension. 

“You’re an inverse albino- A single dark patient among pale ones. Schizophrenia, was it? That’s overdiagnosed in blacks, particularly black men, but I think…” Trager swung around, peering into Boone’s eyes. “I think you might just be crazy. But I can fix you, imagine that? It’s a doctor thing. It’s what we do, no need to thank me, buddy.” 

“What are you-” 

“You’re going to need to be very still for this, buddy. I wouldn’t want to cut wrong…” The chuckle was a warning one, a reminder, and Boone grit his teeth, revulsion and fear surging through him, pooling in his gut, tightening his abdomen. Trager selected a thin, small blade off his tray in the corner, and Boone fought down shrieking, terrifying fear, swallowing dryly and watching Trager, wide-eyed, as he grabbed one of Boone’s thumbs, pressing the tip of the blade against the skin, tapping it against the meat of his finger almost idly. Trager was close enough to bite, and Boone was very, very tempted, but his rational mind told him that biting would only bring him a terrible, terrible death. 

The blade bit into the flesh of his thumb, and Boone shouted, in fear and out of the sudden start, jerking back.

“I told you to _cooperate,_ buddy. I’m trying to help you.” Trager reminded him patiently, backhanding Boone hard enough to make him see stars. How did such a thin man carry such strength? “Stubborn guy, aren’t you?” 

He gripped Boone’s hand tightly, coldly crushing his fingers together in a tight grip, and Boone let out a cry of pain and despair, the knowledge that he was about to be skinned like a rabbit making his blood run cold and a sweat break out on his skin. 

He was introduced to a whole new level of hell as Trager slowly ran the knife through his skin, grabbing the dark flesh as it peeled away from Boone’s finger. The whole while, Trager didn’t show a single sign of rage, just a calm, businesslike atmosphere and cold, wicked satisfaction from watching the patient squirm and gasp as blood overflowed from the injury, flooding down Boone’s finger and dripping on the floor. Trager cleanly swiped after a long moment of nothing but sheer agony and screams, taking away a thin strip of black skin and depositing it on the tray, gently set on a dusky towel by his wicked tools.

Boone panted, shaking, trying to stop tears from pooling. It was a slow, excruciating process, and he realized that he was going to die here, like this, with layers of skin slowly being pulled from his body, dizzying pain making his body cold, except for the one place on his body where his flesh burned like bubbling lava. 

Trager grew closer again, and Boone screamed hysterically, struggling away as his fingers were clutched in the surgeon’s tight, cold grip, as the knife was cleaned and brought back to Boone’s other hand, carefully selecting the ring finger on his left hand. 

“NO! No no no-” 

The blade shallowly sunk into his flesh, and Boone let out a low howl, trying to struggle, as the digging pain of a blade scoring and peeling his skin hit him anew, and he shut his eyes tightly, trying to block it out, but Jesus Christ, he just _couldn’t._

“Fuck-” Trager cursed, whipping upward and crudely slicing off a slab of skin on accident. Boone let out a low cry, and Trager struck him again, snapping for quiet. “Shit, shit, shit, why the fucking hell is he here!? This is my goddamn place!” 

It came to Boone faintly, now that the agony had become less sharp. The jingle of chains, Chris Walker’s signature sound.

“Listen to me, buddy. You shut the fuck up right now, or we’re both dead,” Trager snarled in his ear, and Boone could only muster a soft groan of compliance amid his agonized wheezing. Trager moved slowly, deliberately, towards the door, on tip-toes, flicking off the light, plummeting them into darkness, save the light that pooled from underneath the door. 

“What do I get? For keeping quiet.” Boone kept his voice a low rasp. “I’m going to die either way, I wouldn’t mind having Walker take you down, too.” 

“Agh, fucking- Fine! I’ll let you go as soon as _he_ gets the fuck out!” 

“Then I don’t have anything to threaten you with. Let me the fuck out.” 

He heard Trager’s sharp, furious intake of breath, and he inhaled on his own, readying to scream, and Trager padded over, fumbling with the straps on his wheelchair. “Goddamn… Remember, I hold the knives, buddy.” 

“Believe me,” Boone snarled lowly, “I know.” 

And then, the door opened, quite calmly, and Boone blinked in astonishment as Waylon and Miles slammed it behind themselves. 

“Walker is still out there,” Waylon’s haggard voice, belabored panting leaving his throat.

“I know that,” Miles responded in a patient whisper. “Keep your back against the door, camera u-” 

“Boone?” Waylon gasped, and Miles cursed under his breath furiously. “Please, God, tell me we’re not picking up that other guy as a stray, he’s way too fucking old.” 

“Miles, that’s Trager!” Waylon’s voice was tight with fear. “He was at my wedding, he and John know each other-” 

“I don’t know who the fuck either of them are!” Miles snapped back, still keeping his voice down. “Are we in trouble or not!?”

“He’s the one that attacked Boone, he’s the one that mutilated everyone in this wing-” 

“I hate to interject, but shut the fuck up!” Trager snarled softly. “I’m a simple goddamn guy, buddy, and I have simple goals. One of them is to not fucking die to Chris Walker.” 

“Whores!” Roared right outside the door, and Boone noted Miles’ whimper with some satisfaction. Trager’s fingers stopped on the straps, but Boone managed to slip one hand free. Ignoring the horrid agony in his fingers, he fumbled blindly for the other leather restraint, managing to get it loose enough to slip out, and stumbling to his feet. The door was slammed against loudly, and that’s all it took for Waylon and Miles to scuttle back into the dark. After that, it was mere seconds until Walker broke down the door. 

Light flooded the room, and Boone turned his head, adjusted to the darkness, the searing light burning his eyes. Walker charged for Trager, who let out a sudden cry of terror, his skinning knife not even close to being a match for Walker’s bulk. 

“NO, NO, NO, FUCK-”

Waylon and Miles were both frozen from terror, watching as Walker lifted up the kicking, shouting Trager, who sunk his blade repeatedly into the patient’s flesh, slashes up and down his chest, across his arms, but no more when Walker brutally and quickly snapped his wrist, making Trager scream and struggle. 

“We don’t want to be around for this!” Boone forced himself into activity, moving over to Waylon and Miles, yanking on their fronts to spur them into motion. “He’s going to kill us, let’s GO!”

That woke them up- The three raced out of the room, the horrible ripping sound and spatter of blood meeting their ears, along with Trager’s dying scream. Boone looked back- Trager was in two pieces, there was a lot of blood, and that was as much as he wanted to see of that mess. 

“GO!” Miles shouted, taking the lead with fleet feet, Boone and Waylon striving to catch up. Miles rounded a corner, passing an elevator- Their escape, Boone thought with a fluttering heart- and climbed through a vent, helping Waylon, then Boone, Walker giving a roar of frustration as he grasped at Boone’s ankle, blood making his hands too slippery to grip, and subsequently allowing Waylon and Miles to pull him in. 

They raced down the hall, ignoring the scent of rotting corpses, of death, of decay and blood and piss and worse. A case of junk met them, and they shoved it aside swiftly. 

Another vent, shadows blurring the passage, the three of them dropping down next to a bathroom, shaken silence following them. 

“Boone- Your hands-” Waylon looked down at them with wide eyes. “Jesus, we’re sorry, but we tried to follow him after he took you, but Walker’s on high alert right now, he’s all over the place, I swear. We got sidetracked, had to go around, I’m sorry-”

“Waylon, shut up.” Miles hissed. “I don’t think we’re alone.”

“Not Walker again?” Waylon whispered in complaint. 

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Miles paused, listening closely. He lifted up the camera, squinting into the darkness. “Jesus. I think I’m going fucking crazy.”

“Nothing there?” Waylon’s tensed shoulders began to relax. 

“Yeah- But I do see something else. Look.” Miles pointed. “Is that-”

“Holy shit,” Boone breathed. “A key. A key, we can fucking get out of here! If we play our cards right, guys, we can get out of this place! That elevator’ll take us outside!” 

He let out a high-pitched giggle, of relief, and Waylon’s shoulders slumped, the tech beginning to laugh as well, although softer. Miles allowed himself to sigh, let a relieved grin overtake his face.

“I think that’s the best news I’ve gotten in a long, long time.” This was the happiest, most calm he’d ever seen Miles, barring the times he’d seen him sleeping. “All this stuff we’ve got in the camera, and Boone being a first-hand witness, we can bring Murkoff down and live the rest of our fucking lives in peace. Oh, my God, this is…”

“Amazing.” Waylon breathed, practically skipping towards it, Boone and Miles dashing after him eagerly. Waylon grabbed the key, and the jingle of chains hit their ears. 

“Oh, shit.” Miles whispered, the sound tight and fearful. “Oh, goddamned motherfucking Christ, why now, why now, why now!?”

“Little pig!” Walker bellowed, and slammed down the door with his shoulder in one sharp, swift gesture. Boone was the first to scramble backwards, through the gap they’d come from, running back towards the bathrooms. 

It was then he realized that this was no better a plan of escape than running towards Walker. Now they were trapped. Waylon pressed himself to the wall along with Miles, and Boone stared up at the ruined face, at milky white eyes and a huge, bulking form, at limbs that’d just torn a man apart in front of his very eyes. 

“Little pigs, little pigs.” Walker bared his pearly white teeth. “No more escape.”

An arm wrapped around his belly, a strong forearm, regardless of its relative tininess compared to the huge patient’s body. Chris stiffened, wrinkling his destroyed face in disgust and annoyance, just as a blade gleamed in the air, plunging into the fat of his back between his shoulder blades, the point driven home with every ounce of force in the attacker’s body. Chris gave a choked gurgling sound, and there was a wet, raspy _shlick,_ like the sound of steel rasping on stone. Boone recognized it as a blade grinding against bone, and he realized, with some hope and some apprehension, that someone had just severed Chris motherfucking Walker’s spinal cord. If not killing him instantly, then leaving him paralyzed and suffering a slow, painful death. 

The attacker stepped out from the shadows, blue eyes points of fire in the relative darkness of the hall, lit by the glow seeping from the ajar bathroom door. 

_“Darling.”_


	15. Groomed to Perfection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fuck you, Waylon.” He said, without any real heart in his voice.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit-” The jacketed whore whispered under their breath, repeating the vulgar words like a mantra. Eddie had never more wanted to slit someone’s throat, the very sight of the detestable worm and offense to his eyes. To appease himself, he moved his eyes, flickering over his wife- he’d get to _her_ later, focusing on the third member of his love’s escape party. He recognized them, vaguely. He’d never strung this one up, but he recalled chasing them once or twice, and if it weren’t for the slope of their shoulders and broad chest, he might consider them a wife candidate, had he not already been committed to Waylon.

He took a menacing step forward, and the slut who’d stolen his wife pressed his back harder against the wall, as if he could will himself through it and escape. No, no- Not this time. He was going to feel the man’s blood on his hands before tonight was over, and he was going to enjoy it. Maybe he’d keep the man’s jacket, though- He didn’t think it would fit, but he could repurpose it for his darling, maybe. Whether he used it or not was inconsequential, however- At the end of it all, the man would be dead, as his dark-skinned companion, and he could take his darling back, this foolishness put at an end. 

Walker gave a choked, rasping gurgle, whitened eyes staring at Eddie in disbelief and horror. 

“Sorry. But I couldn’t deny myself the opportunity to rid the world of these whores myself. Just die quickly- you’re done here. Both in this room and in this world.”

Eddie chose to carefully step around him, making sure not even the tip of his shoe brushed Walker’s skin, choosing to focus on the two meddlesome bastards and his disobedient wife rather than the dying soldier. “Now, to get down to-” 

His wife flung herself at him, and Eddie blinked, shocked, as she wrapped her arms around him in a great, enveloping hug, planting kisses on whatever she could reach on his jaw and neck on tip-toes. “Eddie,” she gasped, placing her head underneath his chin and her jaw on his chest, “Thank God!” 

“Waylon!” The jacketed whore shouted, voice strained, eyes wide. “Waylon, don’t you dare do this to us! You can’t-” 

“Shut up!” Eddie barked. “You don’t speak to me, or my wife, like that!” He flipped his knife, a sneer on his face, and he advanced on the bastard, to make him finally shut up, to finally leave the world. He loomed over the whore, who swallowed in response, muscles tensing, and Eddie was ready for the inevitable lunge to the right, away from the corner, and the running. The trick he’d used to steal his wife wouldn’t work again.

When he tried to raise his arm, he found his wife clinging to him, wrapping both of hers around his upper arm, holding him back.

“Eddie, Eddie, please-” 

“They took you from me.” He shot back roughly. 

“Eddie, it’s not their fault- We want to leave.” 

“You want to leave me!?” Eddie jerked his arm free, anger coursing through his blood, liquid fire in his veins, heat building in the center of his chest. “You want to-” He held the knife aloft, and Waylon whimpered, shielding her face, and he felt a savage cruelty, the carnal urge to rip and tear and hurt. But, no, he had to remember his temper. He grit his teeth, lowering his arm. 

“No! No, Eddie, that’s not true- I love you!” 

He liked hearing that.

No, no, he _loved_ hearing that.

Those three little words had him purring, holding her to his chest as he stroked down her back, leaving butterfly kisses down the side of her face. “Oh, darling. It’s so very good to hear you say those words. So very, very good.” He nuzzled her cheek, pressing a kiss to the side of her lips. He noticed, in the corner of his eye, that the two whores looked both bewildered and disturbed, but he disregarded them, grabbing her by the hips and pressing a hard kiss on her lips, pressing her body to his. 

“Waylon-” A flicker of irritation, as the darker-skinned of the whores tentatively said his darling’s name- “Waylon-” 

“Darling, as much as I adore you and your loyalty, it’s for the safety of both of us that these two are disposed of.” He gently disentangled his limbs from Waylon’s, approaching the jacketed one again, who let out a high-pitched squeak of “WAYLON!” 

“Eddie! Eddie, stop, Eddie!” His bride grabbed him from behind, no malice in the arms that encircled him, but still strength. “Eddie, please, no! You have to stop, please, please!” 

“He took you from me!” 

“I wanted to leave!” 

“But-” His jaw worked furiously, and he turned, to look at her- “You said- You loved me.” 

“I _do!”_ She cried, hands clenching into fists at her sides. “I do, Eddie, Jesus Christ, why else would I have stayed with you for so long? But this whole place is awful! There’s blood, bodies, gore, torture and worse, everywhere, I’ve been attacked dozens of times, under your watch and not under it, and I almost died here! I want to leave the Asylum, Eddie, you have to understand that!” 

“But-” Eddie fumbled. He should be angry, but he was too bewildered, trying to process it all. “But-” 

“I love you!” She interjected.

“Then stay.” He urged, grabbing one of her hands- still cold, she was always so cold- “With me.” 

She pulled her hand away, her tongue poking slightly from between her teeth, her thunderstorm gray eyes afraid, but steeled with anger, the look of someone who wasn’t going to back down under any circumstance. She puffed out her chest, put her hands on her hips, and in a voice that was only slightly shaky, said, “No. You come with me, Eddie. Please. I’m going to go with them, and I want you to come along.” 

“Waylon, are you insane!?” The jacketed one hissed from nearby. Eddie shot him a furious glare, to shut him up, and it worked very well very quickly. 

“Eddie…” She laid a gentle hand on his chest. “Please, come with us.” 

He honestly considered it. The Asylum was dangerous, he knew that, and although the idea of raising their children in the place had been incredibly appealing, he couldn’t ignore the fact that the entire place was disgusting and unsafe, running out of water, electricity, and food. Other than the Garden, there was no guaranteed source of food, and he knew Waylon would sooner die of starvation than contemplate eating a corpse, fresh or rotted. 

The water was getting worse. They would get sick from it. The children would get sick. Waylon would get weak, already injured via her leg.

“And you want to go with them?” He nodded towards them jerkily. “Why not just leave on our own, darling? Surely these, these, _whores_ are not necessary.” 

“Eddie, Miles-” she pointed to the man in the jacket, the original thief- “Is a family friend. I can’t leave him here, Eddie, please.” 

He curled his lip, gazing at this Miles with hostility, letting him know that his presence here was not welcome. Eddie, after keeping the long, hard gaze, let his sight move from the ‘family friend’ to the dark-skinned man. Miles moved stiffly, cautiously inching away from the wall, towards the bathroom, where he darted in and slammed the door behind himself, with a hurried mumble, possibly an excuse. It was clear to all he was afraid, and the thought that he was such a coward made Eddie feel a little bit more pleased. His wife was after someone brave, not a timid little mouse. 

“And this one?” He gestured towards the man in the patient’s uniform.

“Another friend. He gave me my best wedding gift.” 

That surprised Eddie. “Oh, well, I-” He gave the man a brief look-over. His hands had suffered a significant deal- the backs of two fingers viciously ripped away, leaving bleeding, exposed muscle and nerves. He stared at them in distaste- Eddie prided himself in doing his work quickly, efficiently, never understood why anyone would needlessly go for agonizing torture outside of passionate anger, do something as cold and cruel as skinning a man.

He reached into his other pocket, the knifeless one, retrieving gauze, moving towards Waylon slowly, dressing her wounds first. A few nicks and scrapes on her fingers, a splinter or two that needed to be tweezed out, her feet more or less protected from the gauze trick Eddie was proud of her for learning.

“Eddie,” Her tone was of soft complaint, and Eddie gave her a loving smile as he pressed a swath of clean fabric to her bloodied cheek, wiping away the grime. “Eddie, Boone is hurt worse, help him, not me.” He felt a momentary flicker of aggravation- they were having a _moment,_ and the reminder that there were others around ruined it. He stomped over to Boone, who cringed in his presence, timidly accepting his gauze with shaking, bloodied fingers. The man began to dress himself, slow and shaky, until his fingers were bandaged. He offered the gauze back, and Eddie took it with a growl, letting him know full well that he wasn’t happy to be with him either. 

-

“What the fuck, Waylon.” Was Miles’ first words as Waylon joined him in the bathroom. “What the literal, actual fuck. You can’t invite a goddamn psycho like that into our group! If we piss him off, he’s going to fucking kill us, idiot! Even Boone isn’t that bad- You’ve screwed us over really fucking hard, man, and if I die, I want ‘Waylon Park is a fucking dumbass’ written on my grave, nice and big for everyone to see. No- I want a grave right next to yours, except my tombstone is in the shape of a giant middle finger, and pointed towards your rotting body.” 

“Miles, please calm down.” Waylon tried to soothe him, gently putting a hand on his shoulder to try to calm the reporter. “I just saved all of us from getting eviscerated, and I’m the one that has to deal with him later. Just trust me.” 

“I don’t,” He responded curtly.

“That’s reasonable.” Waylon sighed, leaning against the bathroom door in exhaustion. “We bring him with us, or we die. I chose the smart option.” 

“Well-” Miles blustered, starting to stand in agitation, then sitting back down. “You’re right, but you’re being an asshole about it.” 

“Miles,” He scolded, nudging the reporter with his foot. Miles glared up at him, angrily and tiredly. 

“Fuck you, Waylon.” He said, without any real heart in his voice. Waylon offered out his hand, and Miles took it, helping himself up, and the two left the bathroom, rejoining Eddie and Boone, who were both awkwardly looking away from the other. 

“Eddie? Boone?” Waylon prompted. “We’re leaving now. We’re going to get out.” 

“I know the way.” Eddie murmured. “I’ve been here a lot longer than the rest of you.” 

A pang of sympathy hit Waylon in the belly, and he swallowed, taking Eddie’s hand when the huge man offered it. Miles and Boone lingered on behind them, following Eddie slowly. 

There wasn’t a single patient in this entire place, for a full hour and a half of wandering. Well, not a single living patient, anyway. There were ones with limbs and heads torn off, with mangled and mutilated bodies, but none that still clung to life. Walker and Trager’s doing, Waylon realized with a shudder, and the thought made him unconsciously cling closer to the Groom. 

It was a long time of jumping over overturned furniture, slinking past bloodsoaked corridors, and silence. That hour and a half was painfully long, especially with the silent tension amongst Miles, Boone, and Eddie.

Oh, but when that silence was over...

“Here.” Came Eddie’s voice, slow and quiet, and he gestured for everyone to step back. Violently, he slammed his shoulder against a door, throwing his weight against it with heavy grunts, eventually tearing the thing off its hinges. Carpeted floor met them, a white-yellow hallway, glowing lights overhead, the entire place a lot less bloodied and damaged than the rest of the asylum. Not a single broken door or bloodsoaked footprint, not a corpse or scrap of viscera. 

“Where are we?” Boone murmured. “It’s so clean.”

“The front of the Asylum.” Miles gasped, half-delighted, half in shock. “Oh my God. Oh my God. We’re almost out- We’re close to the entrance, my God-” 

“Thank you, Eddie.” Waylon said pointedly, and Miles vaguely mumbled a half-hearted ‘thank you’, while Boone said nothing at all.

Down the corridor, through a vent, more wandering leading them to an elevator. The elevator down to the first floor. Eddie forced the grate open with assistance from Boone, the two straining to pry it apart. Eventually they managed to break it enough to force themselves in. 

“A little crammed.” Miles noted, voice shaky with relief. “But I think we all might fit, if we squeeze in. This is just… Oh, fuck, we’re all going to live.” 

Waylon went first, followed by Eddie, then Miles, then Boone, all jamming themselves into the little space.

The key was already in the lock. Waylon watched Miles turn it, the man’s fingers shaking with excitement and relief. The elevator jolted, and fear tightened Waylon’s heart, and he worried that it wouldn’t move at all, that they’d be stuck, he’d be trapped here, in this hell, for the rest of his life, however long or short that might’ve been. 

The elevator jolted again, and it made a low grinding noise at it descended to the floor below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, the next chapter will NOT be what you think it is- Although I welcome speculation!


	16. Escape from Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Eddie, come on, we don’t want to get left here!” Waylon jerked hard on Eddie’s arms, desperately. “Eddie, please!” 
> 
> “I know, darling, I know, but it’s been a very… Very long time since I was outside…”

The elevator came to a shuddering halt at the first floor, the damaged gates creaking in screechy complaint as they slid open. Miles calmly stepped through, trying to calm his fluttering heart, to suppress tears of joy from making his eyes water. His legs were shaky, and he was almost worried he’d fall over, but it didn’t matter, because the doors were _right there,_ he was almost _free._

“My car is still out there.” He rasped quietly. “Keys- Keys should be in the ignition. We’re almost out. We’re almost fucking out of here!” 

Boone gave a shaky sound that Miles supposed was a laugh, stumbling out on equally shaky legs, while Eddie approached more conservatively, more quietly, a hand on Waylon’s shoulder and a frown on his face, peering at the near-sunset light filtering in with some measure of apprehension. 

“Waylon- Waylon, c’mon, it’s right there, let’s go, let’s go!” Miles urged him. “Fuck, I don’t care, we’ll take the tall, murdering asshole too. Let’s go, we’re almost out, we’re so close!” 

“Eddie, nothing out there will bite. It’s more dangerous staying in here than out there.” Waylon tugged his forearm, leading him carefully out of the elevator, while Eddie’s face tightened with more uncertainty and his steps grew slower, much more precise. He seemed a lot less eager to speak now, too, not saying a word when Boone very cautiously drew closer, helping Waylon pull him along. 

“Waylon!” Miles whined impatiently. Escape was mere meters away, just rounding a big security desk and walking through a set of doors, and he was NOT going to stay behind just because some lunatic couldn’t walk a couple feet. “Get him moving or leave him behind, we’re leaving, _right now,_ and at this point, I really don’t care if I have to leave you all behind, I’ve got enough on my camera to bring these guys down, with or without you.” 

“Eddie, come on, we don’t want to get left here!” Waylon jerked hard on Eddie’s arms, desperately. “Eddie, please!” 

“I know, darling, I know, but it’s been a very… Very long time since I was outside…” 

“Eddie, don’t tell me you’re scared!” Waylon’s voice grew reproachful, and Miles recognized the subtle manipulation. Eddie was a big, masculine guy, acting in the role of a big, tough husband. Make him look like he was weak, that would be a big jolt to push him towards acting tough, and thus, outside. 

“No- Darling, I’m _not!”_ Eddie objected, and, as Miles guessed, he reacted by puffing out his chest, pulling his arms away from Waylon and Boone and striding towards the doors like he owned the goddamn place. Miles jogged after him, barely managing to squeeze through the door before he strode through it, and although he wanted to escape, he had to stop for a moment. 

Heavy armored cars sat abandoned, as they had when Miles first entered, haphazardly parked on the bricked walkways outside the Asylum. Mid-afternoon light slanted through the trees, over top the mountains in the distance, and Miles gave a rough sob, his chest swelling. Oh, God, he was going to live, he was going to live. 

“Come on!” Miles gestured furiously to the jeep parked awkwardly at the front, partially taking up space on the curb and the road, breaking into a run, hardly daring to believe he was so close to being free. He half-expected some kind of force field or something to block his way, prevent him from leaving, but no, he made it to the car without anything stopping him. He called out to the stunned Boone, Waylon, and Eddie, who were all looking around numbly, as if they couldn’t believe it either. “Four seats, one for each of us! Glad I got the four-seater rather than the two-seater... Waylon, you’re up front with me!” 

“Excuse me,” Eddie said politely, having gained enough ground with a light jog to loom over Miles’ shoulder. “But I would like to sit next to my wife.” 

“He’s not your- I’m not having any crazies sitting next to me.” Miles scowled, placing his hands on his hips and leaning against the car door, preventing Eddie from entering. “And _I’m_ the one who’s driving, got it?” 

“I’m not letting Waylon in, and I’m not getting in, unless I get to sit next to her.” Eddie insisted, folding his arms and glaring down at Miles. 

“Miles, please, just sit next to Boone.” Waylon and Boone had just caught up, milling at Eddie’s heel. Waylon’s face was pleading, Boone’s hard to read but definitely sporting a frown. 

“But-” 

“Miles, this is ridiculous!” Waylon interjected fiercely. “We went through that _hell,_ and you’re more concerned about who you fucking sit next to than getting out of here?” 

Miles jolted, slightly surprised. Waylon was always a little calmer than that- not completely timid, he was willing to raise his own points and defend them evenly, but Miles couldn’t recall hearing him swear, and he was always a gentle, patient guy. He assured Boone when he was feeling hesitant, made calm decisions for the team, and Christ, Eddie had _married_ him for his submissiveness and wifely abilities. It was jarring to hear him swear, enough for Miles to step back and take a look at the big picture. Now that he was thinking about it, it was fucking ridiculous that he was arguing over who he was sitting next to, but now it was about principle. He let out an impatient whine and folded his arms, taking them off his hips and arguing with Waylon just for the sake of not having to back down. 

“If he, like, jostles me, I might drive into a tree and kill us. I’m sorta on-edge, Waylon, and I’d really rather not go through all that to die when a tree branch pierces my eye socket and stabs me in the brain.” Miles said defensively.

“Get in the car, Miles.” 

Grumbling to himself, he opened the car door, sitting heavily in the driver’s seat. Boone slid around to the passenger’s, dropping his butt into his seat and buckling his seatbelt, twiddling his thumbs innocently.

Waylon and the psychopath got in the back after some awkwardness and shuffling, the killer so big he could barely fit without holding his head down and cramming himself next to Waylon. Miles did _not_ envy him, not in the slightest, but Waylon had been the one to invite the guy along. His fault. He shot Boone a look, a silent warning to not startle him, lest he crash the car on accident and kill all four of them. 

Boone’s gaze was steadfast, and unamused, a silent response to Miles’ warning. _Trust me, I won’t._

Miles turned the key gently, hardly daring to breathe, and was delighted to hear the engine sputter and roar to life in response. “Oh, thank god. It worked-” 

“Uh, Miles, the gate’s still shut.” Waylon pointed out. “We’re not just going to slam the jeep into it when we could just push it open, right? It’s not even locked, it’s just shut.” 

“Waylon, buddy, I’m gonna be brutally honest.” Miles ignored how his voice shook slightly. “I am honest to God terrified that if I leave this jeep and turn my back, it’ll just disappear. Really. Fuckin’. Terrified.” 

“Then move over.” Waylon said impatiently, unbuckling his seatbelt and shouldering aside both Miles and Boone, climbing over them and out. Eddie gave a worried sound, sitting up in his seat and consequently banging his head on the ceiling, cursing the jeep and grabbing the back of Miles’ seat.

Miles jolted, and the killer snarled near his ear, “If you even _think_ about leaving her behind while she opens the gate, I will turn the car around myself and run you over in the process. Do you understand me?” 

“Yeah,” Miles said, swallowing dryly as he imagined Eddie tossing him out on his ass and driving over him, his skull popping beneath the tires and the blood and brain matter exploding from underneath. “I gotcha.” 

Waylon was busy hobbling over to the gate while his ‘husband’ threatened Miles. When he arrived at it, he clearly expected it to just give underneath his hands, which it did not. He shoved his shoulder against it repeatedly, grunting and mumbling what must’ve been curses under his breath, as the creaky hinges of the gate groaned in protest, not wanting to budge underneath Waylon’s efforts. “Come- on, just work for me, _please.”_

Eddie’s head turned to watch Waylon work, and Miles envisioned a concerned look on his face. “I think my darling needs help-” He began, just as Waylon gave a frustrated roar and shoved with all his might, the gate squeaking loudly and swinging open with a horrible, rusty shriek. Waylon clapped his hands over his ears to guard himself from the unpleasant noise, and Boone’s fists balled, and for a moment, Miles thought he could see true madness in the black man’s eyes, a glimpse of insanity that chilled him to the very bone. The schizophrenic shut his eyes tightly, taking several deep breaths, and returned to a state of calm, palms spreading on his knees. Waylon climbed over Miles, squirming as he tried to get back in his seat, Eddie’s arms there to safely receive the computer tech and place him back in his seat. 

“Fucking finally.” Miles mumbled, ignoring Eddie’s hostile glare and Waylon’s disgruntled face. He jerked the shift stick, reversing himself for a minute, before jamming it upwards, palming the wheel to turn, and driving through the gate. “Oh my God.” Miles whispered to himself, staring at the road ahead, at the forest, at the sunbeams slowly filtering in through the trees and the brittle leaves drifting from branches. The actuality of his situation, the honest to God realization that he was out, he was free, there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do to return him to that hell, hit him. He sighed, a deep noise of relief and exhaustion, and focused on driving, the jittering in his stomach still there, but not as prominent as it was when he first stepped out of the elevator. 

There was idle, sparse chatter- Waylon asked Boone what he’d do once he got back to civilization, after being trapped in the asylum for two years, with no family and no money left. Boone had hesitated, shrugged slightly, and said he’d started a year of college before being shuttled to an asylum, after violently assaulting a classmate. He might go back, maybe, start therapy. Get back on antipsychotics again. When Waylon suggested getting a support group, some friends to live with him and help him, or even a romantic partner, Boone violently shook his head and vehemently rejected the very concept. He didn’t want Murkoff to go after someone else because of him once the whole thing was blown open. The conversation died off after that, as everyone in the car thought of the implications.

After a short while, a minute or two, Eddie asked Waylon where they would live now- Waylon’s voice shook, and Miles couldn’t help feeling sympathetic as Waylon described an apartment in the middle of Boulder. Eddie considered it for a moment, asked if he wouldn’t mind more rural living, and Waylon attempted to laugh it off shakily with a _well, then, maybe somewhere on the rural side in the suburbs, to make both of us happy._

Eddie was quiet after that, and judging by the expression on his face, he was considering it. 

They’d spent twenty minutes in the car, everyone just beginning to relax and familiarize themselves with the idea of escape, with the dream of a normal life and peaceful living. Of course. Waylon would go on to be with his wife, Eddie would get locked up and put in a (hopefully better) mental asylum, Boone would go about his business and Miles would do a calmer story, about some company’s tax fraud or something. He wasn’t keen on encountering the blood and gore and fear again- Everything he’d seen would stay with him for life. 

He didn’t know it now, but the sound of jingling chains would terrify him until death, the sight of blood would traumatize him, he would become a compulsive hoarder, stealing batteries and files, carrying his camera with him always. He didn’t know that he would come to fear the forests of Colorado, or the damaging effects it would all have on his psyche. For now, he was content with getting out, and living with the ghostly aftershocks later.  
“Boone, what’re you looking at?” Miles asked curiously, noticing how the man was staring off into the distance behind them.

“Just a hallucination.” He said vaguely. “Shadow-person, flying towards us. I see it all the time-” 

“Schizophrenia is definitely not contagious,” Waylon’s voice shook badly. “So why am I seeing it too?” 

“You’re _what!?”_ Miles whipped his head around, and lo, there was the darkened outline of some kind of shadowy man chasing them, arms outstretched, a cloud of blackness swirling around them. 

“Oh goddammit, oh goddammit, what the fuck is that,” Miles didn’t know if he was whispering or shouting. “Fuck, fuck, fuck-” He slammed his foot down on the accelerator, but the thing was gaining, and it was gaining quickly. It glided towards them, sinking a hand into the back of the car, whatever the hell it was, it was strong enough to puncture steel, as its fingers dug in through the roof.

Boone was frozen, jaw gaping, Waylon giving a shriek of surprise and fear, Eddie holding him tight to his chest, staring up at the thing with barely disguised hatred and fury. Miles spun the wheel, hoping to shake it off, but it held tight. He gave a shout of shock as the thing ripped off the roof of his jeep and gave him a new sunroof in the process. The thing floated over them, looking around, and Miles’ foot left the accelerator. He jammed on the breaks, the three giving strangled choking sounds as the seat belts cut into their skin. The thing, not anticipating this, continued moving forward, then whirled around, heading back towards the jeep. 

“Shit, no, no, SHIT!” Miles shouted, as the car gave a rough sputtering noise, taking an eternity to move, “Goddammit, I didn’t come this far to fucking die out here!” 

The thing descended, reaching out, and Boone gave a shrill howl of fear as it snapped his seatbelt, grabbing him by the front of his clothes and jerking him upward. “It’s the Walrider! The Walrider, fuck-” 

It reached for the two in the back, Eddie trying to throw himself over Waylon to protect him, but the shadowy man backhanded him easily and he slammed into the side of the jeep, the vehicle groaning and rocking slightly at the impact. It tore away Waylon’s seatbelt and grabbed him by the front of the dress, snatching him up. It hovered above the ruined jeep briefly, giving a distorted snarling sound in Miles’ direction before flying off with its two captives, which shouted and struggled, begging for help that Miles was unable to give. 

What followed was a dead, shocked silence, broken by Miles after a minute or two.

“Walrider. Boone called it the Walrider.” Miles whispered, licking his lips, the thing’s appearance, strength, and thievery of his companions leaving him numbed. 

Eddie stirred, groaning softly. “The Walrider?” He looked around, at the half-vacant car, and blinked in shock. 

“Oh, God help us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CH 17: Hell(o) Again


	17. Hell(o) Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It glided into a window, looking left and right, the two bodies dangling limply from its hands. It was frustrated that it couldn’t bring them through underneath the door- they were not made of a billion little individual parts, capable of sliding under the tiniest crack. They were big, they were cumbersome, and it was tempted to destroy them for the inconvenience alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I am just blazing through these.

The Walrider drew in closer, precious cargo in hand.

It had to return them to their proper place, where they belonged. Keep insiders in, outsiders out, that was his job, as dictated by Wernicke. It circled the Asylum, everything too-bright in the harsh sunlight, but it had to patrol and make sure no others had escaped. That was its job, after all, its purpose, and it lived for its purpose. 

It was surprised- as surprised as it was capable of being, with its emotions so numbed and disjointed- that anything had managed to escape under its watchful eye, as nothing had quite just yet. Mostly things that had tried to get out died on the way or otherwise were hindered. Those four were the first in a long, long time. It was getting lazy, soft and unresponsive in the lull of peace now that the patients dwindled to only a handful. There had been hundreds inside the building two months ago, possibly even a thousand, but if its count was correct, the total number of living humans inside was down to only eighty-seven. Well. eighty-five, now that the new one and the big one were still a mile back in the forest. 

It looked down at the patients in its hands, the dark-skinned and light-skinned. They’d fallen unconscious sometime during the flight. It had been very careful to keep them unhurt, save for their unconsciousness, although its first instinct was to rip them open from the inside out, spraying the forest with blood. But no, no, no, they were in the _forest._ Outside the asylum. And they needed to be brought in- None of the violence was allowed to escape the building, which meant it would have to stow its plans of destruction until they were safely tucked within the decrepit place. 

It glided into a window, looking left and right, the two bodies dangling limply from its hands. It was frustrated that it couldn’t bring them through underneath the door- they were not made of a billion little individual parts, capable of sliding under the tiniest crack. They were big, they were cumbersome, and it was tempted to destroy them for the inconvenience alone.

It didn’t, though. Begrudgingly, it settled for what it’d learned in its previous states of humanity. Dropping the light-skinned one with little concern for his health, it fumbled with the door knob, fingers that were used to either being restrained or tearing things apart made clumsy when faced with so delicate a task. It ended up ripping the knob clean out, growling in frustration and dropping both of them, dissolving into a swarm of particles and whirling around the door, pooling under the crack to attack it from both sides. It was reduced to a pile of sawdust and splinters in less than thirty seconds. An inconvenient amount of time, but a short time nonetheless, although the Walrider quickly recognized that it would become a tedious and handicapping process if it had to do it for every door. It grabbed the two by the back of their clothing, dragging them through, drifting past a wide-eyed, scrawny patient ripping meat from a rat’s body. It gazed up at the Walrider as it drifted by, fear and reverence in its eyes, and it dropped the corpse, bowing to the floating figure as it passed.

It ignored them. It had a place in mind, where he could take these two, then it would fly out and retrieve the other two. It had assured that one of them- Gluskin, he believed they were named- was unconscious, for a little while, so that one would still remain. The other one, though…

The Walrider hadn’t hunted for anyone, patient or not, in a long time, and it welcomed the challenge. 

-

Waylon thought he was dead. 

Evidently, since he was still capable of getting up, he was not. He rose from the scratchy, filthy mattress he’d been placed upon, immediately nauseated by the rotten smell of decaying flesh and stale, coppery blood. Where was he? He remembered the huge ghostly creature descending upon him, his entire world growing cold as the thing seemed to blot out any warmth in the world, the blackness consuming him, choking him, even as it lifted him up and away from Miles and Eddie, who could only helplessly watch as he and Boone were carried off.

Boone!

Where was Boone-?

He looked around, hoping the blood lingering in his nostrils wasn’t belonging to him. He hoped, oh, he hoped. He didn’t want Boone dead, he was probably his best chance for getting out of here, and although Waylon was only now realizing it, Boone was probably the best friend he’d ever had. He didn’t think he’d had anyone who would try to fight Walker rather than run when backed in a corner, or guide him through an insane asylum full of whackjobs with a kind heart and quick feet.

“Boone?” He called, voice raspy and rough. Silence met him, and he rose. This was like the beginning of the breakout all over again. All alone, set in the middle of hell, with god knew what coming after him, that ghost or whatever it was strong enough to rip the roof off a car and fly off with two decently heavy people. 

He steadied himself. He was better-equipped than before, armed with knowledge and strength with his time with Eddie, and this time the hunting pool was considerably thinned. By the five weeks was up, everything but the smartest, fastest, nimblest, or strongest had perished, which meant he wouldn’t be seeing anything but corpses for a long while. Plus, he still had his camera, which had been his initial leg-up over the inmates in the first place. He lifted it, looked around, and steeled himself. He could journey alone. He’d done it time and time again, after all, even if it had been a while. 

The room he was in was dark, lit only by the sunset of the dark-tinted window. Waylon took a step upwards, peering out the bars. He was a couple floors up, too far to jump without serious injury, even if he could squeeze through the tiny window. He looked around, considering, and tried the door, which was, to his surprise, unlocked. He crept through, looking around and seeing nothing, then hurrying through the hallway and towards the still-glowing fluorescent light in the distance. 

-

“Mr. Mobley.” A sinister smile, sweet and sickening, a wave of hot breath over his forehead and nose, the scent of old coffee in his nostrils and something else that made his stomach turn. Boone turned his head, curling his lip, balling his fists. He curled his toes and fought the urge to attack, even though the sweet whispers in his ear told him to. He closed his eyes, looking back at the stubbled face, focusing on those lips. He didn’t look menacing when Boone first blinked, a soft smile upon his lips only to replaced with a savage smirk, one that halfway drove Boone crazy.

“Mr. Mobley.” The professor repeated. 

Everything snapped back to coherency, and he jolted, eyes darting. The middle of a lecture, he was standing in his seat, with his fists clenched. Imagined. The breath on his face, not real, the malice he’d seen in the professor’s mouth and behind his glasses all envisioned. The whispers grew softer, the cobwebbing shadows receding a little bit, allowing Boone just this moment of sanity. “Mr. Mobley, is there a problem? If you need to leave the room, do so. Mr. Tellers will share his notes.”  
Tellers. The kid next to him. 

“I ain’t workin’ with the crazy guy,” Tellers said, voice loud and bold. “Might rip up my notes and light ‘em on fire as sacrifice to the chicken god or something. Whatever goes through his head.” 

Boone heard laughter. His gaze flicked. He couldn’t tell if they were laughing or it was another auditory hallucination. He’d hallucinated cats meowing and songs playing, flies buzzing and water rushing. Laughter wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. Even if it wasn’t a hallucination, he had to sit there and bear it. 

“I don’t believe in a ‘chicken god.’” Boone said patiently. His entire body itched, and he felt the intense need to scratch.

“Mr. Mobley, step outside if you need to.” 

“I don’t.” He said through gritted teeth. The itch grew more unbearable, and when he looked up, that snarl was back, the malice in the professor’s eyes sending his blood pounding through his body, flight or flight instinct overtaking him. When he looked around, trying to be subtle, everyone appeared to leer, and when he tried to listen and focus on the lecture, the sound was distorted and broken, the man’s features swimming and rippling, impossible to focus on, that sneer the focal point of Boone’s eyes. 

Tellers leaned in, mouth moving but making no sound, teeth too large, eyes too dark, too evil, and Boone’s blood surged, and he knew, he _knew,_ that Tellers was intending to harm him. There was no doubt in his mind, Tellers intended to kill him, and rational thought was put on the backburner as he strove to defend himself. Boone grabbed Tellers by the front of the shirt, slamming his fist into his face, hearing their distorted scream, and he shoved the man down, who flailed wildly, trying to fight and hurt Boone, but Boone was stronger, cleverer. He stamped one foot down on the pulse of his wrist, hearing them yelp, and he drew back, foot smashing into his skull. 

“Get away from me!” He ordered it in a howl, leaving Tellers down where he was, vaulting over desks and running for the door. When he turned back to look, the professor was approaching him, a snarl perched on his lips. 

“Boone,” He said. “Boone.” With more urgency. “Boone, wake up!” 

“Augh- What the fuck!?” Boone jolted up from sleep, getting to his feet, fists at the ready. “What the fuck. Where- Where are…? Wh- Waylon?” 

He rubbed his temples, looking around, blinking. Waylon’s concerned face met his, a flickering yellow fluorescent light overhead illuminating his blond hair and his frown. They were in a small room, a bed in the corner, tallies marked on the walls in the form of crosses. “Jesus… Where are we?” 

“That’s- A really good question, uh, we’re in some kind of room full of cells. There’s corpses all over the place, and a lot of them are old and very disgusting. Downstairs there’s a dead guy in a wheelchair, and I think his skin is literally fused to it. Well, what’s left of his skin.” 

“Waylon, you’re jabbering.” 

“Sorry. I’m not used to being alone anymore, and it took a while to find you, so I’m a little shaky.” Waylon rubbed the nape of his neck sheepishly. “It’s good to see you, Boone. Do you remember… Everything I do?” 

“Being carried off by the Walrider?” Boone grumbled, scratching at his wrist. The itch from the dream still lingered there. He quickly learned that one of his fingers screamed in protest when moving, the skin no longer there to bend, and he cursed violently under his breath, rubbing his palm but not his damaged finger. Scratching would have to be done without his whole hand, then. 

“The what?” Waylon asked, mystified. 

“You don’t know what the Walrider is?” Boone clicked his tongue reproachfully. “It became a religion. Father Martin teaches it. It’s- Well, we don’t really know what it is, but it’s immensely powerful and it has something to do with the lab downstairs.” 

“The lab downs- I used to work down there!” Waylon gasped. “I've never heard of- Of a Walrider.That thing was like a ghost. A really big, really powerful ghost. It flies, it can travel in a cloudy swarm, and it knocked us unconscious without actually touching us. It choked us out, I think- I couldn’t breathe, but I was so hysteric at the time, I barely even noticed.” 

“Well, think of it this way.” Boone sighed, sitting back down on the side of the bed. He was too tired for this. “It didn’t kill us. Normally it rips people apart from the inside out.” 

“It does _WHAT?”_

-

“Okay. Well, the jeep’s not totalled.” Miles mumbled as he ran his hands across the hood. “No damage at all, save for the new sunroof. So, if it’s all the same with you, I say we get outta here. You still have to ride in the back though, and keep your hands away from my throat.” 

“We le-” Eddie climbed out, staring down at Miles with cold blue eyes. “What do you mean, we leave? My wife was taken, and I aim to get her back.” 

“Get her b- She’s probably dead!” Miles argued, scooting around the hood of the car, on opposite sides, so Eddie didn’t have an easy shot at stabbing him. “Do you want to die, too? We have to go, Gluskin, I’m not keen on getting killed by that ghost-thing!” 

“It’s the Walrider.” Eddie said patiently. “It’ll kill us if we run, and Waylon and the other one aren’t dead.” 

“How do you know-” 

“I tried to leave once or twice, you know. There were more women out in the world, I reasoned, but the damnable thing would always catch me once I was outside and drag me back in. I saw other patients being destroyed when they tried to leave- torn from the inside out, severed limbs flying and blood exploding everywhere. The Walrider is the reason most of the disaster is still inside the Asylum, and why everything that tried to get in can no longer get out. It wants to keep us in, and the violence, in. It won’t kill us out here, that’s why it dragged them back rather than kill them.” 

“I don’t care! It cares about the asylum, right? Well, we’re out, and it’s not here! It’s probably busy catching other patients!” Eddie was slowly approaching around the jeep, and Miles vaulted over the hood, scrambling into the driver’s seat, jamming in the key. Eddie grabbed him by his front before he could get his foot on the accelerator, throwing him onto the dirt and leaves, knocking the breath from him and sending his whole world into disorienting chaos. 

His world shifted again, and he realized Eddie had thrown him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “What the- Put me down, dammit!” He battered the patient’s back with his fists, but if the man noticed, he didn’t say anything. 

“Listen to me, whore. We are going after my wife, and you are not leaving this place without me and Waylon.” Eddie snarled. “You’re a slippery, slimy creature, not worthy of my help, and not worthy of Waylon’s time, but she sees something good in you, and that’s why I haven’t killed you yet.” He paused in his march, scowling. “That is the only reason, you snakish slut, now quit struggling, or I’ll beat you until you do. When you’re ready to be let down and walk like an adult, let me know.” 

Miles paused for a moment, considering his situation, and sighed. “Put me down.” 

“Put me down, what?” 

“Put me down, _please.”_ Miles said through gritted teeth.

The lunatic set him down. 

“What’s the plan?” He asked Gluskin tiredly.

“We get caught.” 

“We _WHAT?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is confused as to why the Walrider kill sometimes, but not always, if patients try to escape while still inside the Asylum, it kills them. If a patient is outside the Asylum and escaping, it brings them back, stuffs them somewhere, and doesn't physically harm them except for unconsciousness. 
> 
> Also, from a timeline sense: Miles hasn't encountered Father Martin. At all. Both of he and Waylon have never encountered the Walrider, either, tying in back to the Walrider stating its own laziness. It's been too lethargic to do anything but patrol the outside occasionally. 
> 
> Father Martin also may or may not be making an appearance next chapter.


	18. Babysitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t do it.” Waylon rasped, shaking his head. “Boone, you’re going to have to-”
> 
> “I know, Waylon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Hello! I am aware it has been _quite_ some time since I last posted, and as a result, this chapter may not feel quite right- I'm trying to get back into the swing of things, and my characterization mighta fell a bit outta whack. For this, there was a day where'd be on a writing kick, and I did half of it, and slacked off for three weeks. Time got away from me, and I'll try harder in the future to release a little more often, lol)

“You’re crazy!” The whore shouted again. Oh, how Eddie tired of hearing that boorish phrase! He’d been screamed at with words like those and worse dozens, if not hundreds, of times. It was obnoxious, plain and simple, and Eddie grunted as he adjusted the man’s placement on his shoulder. He’d gotten used to slinging bodies around, carrying them like sacks over his shoulder, although most did not struggle. His ferocity wasn’t anything to write home about- He was moving, yes, but not particularly quickly, choosing to furiously kick beat his fists only half-heartedly, as if frightened that he would be dropped. Eddie would be delighted to drop him, except he was sure that the man would either bolt or hurt something, and somehow that would be Eddie’s fault. There was no real justice- He had an instinct that Waylon would sooner blame him for Miles’ injuries than Miles’ own stupid insistence on being, well, stupid. He didn’t want her even more ticked than she already was, so he shouldered (no pun intended) the man’s burden and continued to march back towards the Asylum. 

“You trusted me enough to let me down once!” The slut said frantically, grasping at Eddie’s back with blunt fingers, trying to get ahold of skin between layers of vest and dress shirt. His wrists were bound, as were his ankles, with layers of thick ribbon that proved to be just as effective as rope. His own little Gleipnir. “What changed!?” 

“When I told you we were going to bait the Walrider, you tried to run off again. That’s why I’m not going to let you down until it gets here.” He said, tone immensely patient for who and what he had to put up with at the present moment. 

“What are you going to do if it kills us!?” He demanded, ceasing his obnoxious struggles for a moment. “Then you can’t get to Waylon, and we’re both going to die due to that thing! Waylon’ll be left all alone, Eddie, this plan is stupid!” 

“I know what I’m talking about.” He felt a tiny prickle of doubt, which he ferociously crushed. He couldn’t let this slut make him doubt himself. Miles was a troublemaker, a wedge between himself and Waylon. He was trying to make Eddie unsure of himself, trying to keep Eddie away from Waylon. And he wouldn’t let that happen. He would stand by his wife’s side, even if it meant dying by it, too. “It won’t kill us. You’re paranoid and frightened. I know what I’m doing.” 

“Eddie, I just escaped from that hell, I’m not going back and dying!” His voice pitched hysterically, and Eddie snarled in his direction, wanting so very badly to kill him and shut his whining face up for good. “Gluskin, I am SO not in the habit of saying this, but _please_ just let me go!” 

He spotted the Walrider, a black swarm of bubbling shapes, overhead, and he dumped the whining whore on the ground. Miles yelped, opening his mouth to complain, but a kick in the belly shut him up, his eyes bulging as he tried to breathe, although all his air had been forcefully expelled from his lungs. 

Eddie stared up at the swarm in challenge, folding his arms. He’d be reunited with his darling soon.   
-

It saw them, but at first, didn’t believe it. It had been lead to believe that once the patients were out, they would run away, not stay. It landed in front of them, gently floating towards. The smaller of the two, the one not with a prison uniform- it would have to fix that, of course, but later- was on the ground, face paling with fear. It seemed to recall many faces like that. Many that were afraid, many that were blurred with madness or incoherency, or just slow acceptance or anger or simply hollow and unknowing.

He had never seen the expression on the other man, and it drifted closer, wondering if perhaps its senses were deceiving itself. It was smirking. Confidently, jauntily, the look of a confident doctor- SICK SICK SICK YOU’RE SICK DON’T TRUST THE DOCTORS YOU’RE BILLY YOU’RE BILLY NOT THE WALRIDER- the smile unnerved it, fascinated it, a little. It was used to fear whenever it drew close, not confidence. Most humbled themselves in front of a god, after all; which it supposed it was. 

It stared for a moment, unsure how to proceed. If patients were defiant, he was to take them in. This one, this smirking thing, was not. It wasn’t running or hiding or spitting or fighting or doing anything at all, and it was lost for a moment, trying to recall Wernicke’s instructions. It didn’t recall any orders as to what to do in this situation, and it whirled around the smirker slowly, trying to see if it was defiant from any angle. No. It just stood, waiting, waiting, for the Walrider’s move. Tentatively, it reached out with an arm, touching the other gently. It was alerted by warm flesh, each nanobot making up its body gingerly feeling along dead skin and hairs, the temperature of the patient’s flesh unnerving. It hadn’t experienced contact with a human this intimate before, done anything aside from swarming in through tiny orifices and ripping things open from the inside out. It was always boiling hot inside the bodies it invaded, but there wasn’t a gentle, tiny pulse underneath the skin, only the jackhammer pounding and quivering when they were captured or destroyed. 

The Walrider clasped its hands with the other, linking in pseudofingers with the human, raising their hands to eye-level. The patient’s hands were rough and calloused, the Walrider’s smooth, interrupted only by the miniscule flitting of the little machines making it a solid mass. The Walrider was large, taller than the other man when floating, but the other’s hands were still bigger than its own. Good human breeding, it knew instinctually, meeting the cold blue eyes of the other. It was injured, sadly; the scars on its face and the destroyed blood vessels in the patient’s eyes told it as much. It felt almost sorry for it, but injuries happened, no matter what it or Wernicke did. There was going to be violence, so long as there was people. 

“Take me to my Waylon.” The patient said finally. The Walrider could feel its skin buzz as it spoke, tiny nanobots detaching to cling to the patient’s body- its throat, its chest, its arms. It felt like devouring the man, just to stop the rushing confusion that its warmth, its lack of fear was causing. Wernicke had given it a specific set of instructions, a code that all the patients would follow, but he had been _wrong._

If Wernicke had been wrong about that, what else could he be wrong about? 

It hated doubting the man. It HATED it. Wernicke was its everything, its lord. This stupid smirker and its laid-back attitude, it made rage spike in the Walrider, but it was not defying, so it could not injure them. It whirled around it, in a cloudy tornado, once again hunting for defiance of Wernicke, of the Asylum, in every piece of the man’s being. He found nothing.

In agitation, it jerked away, disdainful and furious, human emotions bubbling in its usually cold, unfeeling interior. It did not like this. Not one bit. 

“Take me,” It said, with precise slowness, “To my Waylon.”

A Waylon? What was a Waylon? It jerked itself away from him, nanobots retracting into its own solid mass. 

“What is it doing?” The jacketed male asked, swallowing. The Walrider barely registered that ‘it’ meant them. “You said it would take us back to the Asylum.”

“It’s supposed to,” The other answered truthfully. “I don’t know why it’s not.”

“So we can go,” The smaller man surmised. “It’s not gonna take us to Waylon or Boone-”

The Walrider twitched, faintly registering the name. Boone Mobley, patient, the five hundred and twenty-first to enter Mount Massive. Schizophrenia. It distantly recalled the man’s dark, calloused hands reaching out, trying to grab the Walrider’s old human body, hold him close, keep him from the torment of the swirling, painful images Wernicke placed in front of his eyes and the brutality of the staff. 

YOU’RE BILLY DEAR GOD NOT THE WALRIDER 

It twitched again. 

It’d had enough. It reached for the taller of the two, hated the glint that appeared in the man’s eyes as he was lifted. The jacketed male got up and started up a sprint, but the Walrider caught up easily, sinking fingers into his back and jerking him off the ground. Nanobots flooded into his throat through the nose and mouth, obstructing the other man’s breathing and effectively choking him to unconsciousness before delicately slipping out to rejoin the massive Walrider swarm. 

The other didn’t struggle. The taller just sat there, with that satisfied, smug look. The Walrider wanted to tear him apart.

But, it had orders.

-

“It rips people apart from the inside out.” Waylon parroted faintly. “I want to go home.”

“And you didn’t before?” Boone asked, too tired to sound dry. “We can’t escape without stopping it.”

“What’re you saying?” Waylon asked; his tone was cautious, as if he really, really weren’t keen on hearing the answer.

“We have to head down to where you worked, and kill it.”

“You’re saying… Whoever is controlling the Walrider, we have to kill them. We have to murder someone.”

“It’s not that big a deal. I have before.” Boone said. “If you’re tired enough, angry enough, it feels like nothing. Cold rage. Whoever says there’s satisfaction is a liar.”

“I can’t do it.” Waylon rasped, shaking his head. “Boone, you’re going to have to-”

“I know, Waylon.”

He turned, facing the closest window. The church’s windows had been boarded up a long time ago, but he could see it and the late afternoon sky through the dirty glass.

“We have to get back to the elevator, first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (we're approaching the ending, oh, what fun)


	19. Jesus' Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew he had to escape the Asylum, had to get out. 
> 
> He sat down in front of the poor bastard, folding his legs and hunching his back, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at that headstone, at the clumsily lettered “R. Trager”. The wind howled, sending goosebumps up his mostly naked body, and clouds loomed on the horizon.
> 
> He would take his silent, mournful vigil, first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha, gettin' back into the swing of these!

Something was wrong.

John almost thought he could smell it in the air; worse than rotted meat, a waste of a human being. A change was coming to the relative lull the Asylum has slumped into for the past week. Prey was becoming increasingly hard to find, and he had to constantly clash with Manera for territory and food. The death of Trager and Walker had come easily enough; he’d let a skittering twig of an old man free in exchange for the information. John wept no tears for Walker, but Trager’s death was troubling; it spoke to the brewing storm that was coming, both figurative and literally. Clouds were on the horizon, and the wind of change was blowing. 

He had never liked change. Change usually- almost always- meant bad things were coming. 

He prepared himself to visit Trager’s body; he had respect for the man, and he figured it would be an indignity to leave his corpse behind to be gnawed on by rats and a breeding ground for blowflies. He’d bring him back to the Garden and bury him there; Trager’s resting place would be a quiet, friendly-looking place, hiding violent gore. It was a fitting burial site, so much like the man himself.

He stumped off into the Asylum, knife swinging and tapping against his thigh. The walk wasn’t as long as it would’ve taken normally. Doors had been stripped away, barricades had come loose, locks and doorknobs had been smashed, rooms had been ransacked and destroyed. The stench of old, decomposing bodies hit his nose, the decay of a damp month spent undisturbed. The Asylum was rotting, rotting from the inside out; it was only a matter of time before everyone and everything died, and naught remained for him or Manera to eat. 

The impending thought of his prey running dry was concerning; he wondered if he’d ever be desperate enough to unearth bodies, or attempt to go after the preacher and his sort. The Twins were enough of a deterrent, but someday soon he might be hungry enough to go hunting where he would normally never dare. 

Dark times were approaching. Perhaps it was best he bury Trager and his ties to the Asylum, and finally escape. 

When he found Trager’s body- the flitting little slip of a patient had told him the site of both Walker and Trager’s demise- it was not pretty. Not at all. The poor man was in two halves, blood and organs sloshed all over. John was awful with a needle and thread, but figured he probably should not bury him in two halves. He sewed the two severed pieces together, each stitch an inch apart, and while his own craftmanship was horrendous, he felt he owed it to the poor man. He was the last living person John respected in the Asylum, and he briefly reflected on his sympathy for his passing. It wasn’t sadness, not quite, but dull acceptance and a slight bit of determination, determination to bury Richard and be done with him. 

He recalled their first meeting. Trager was struggling with three patients at once, a great pair of wicked shears stabbed into the heart of one of them, the others all stronger than Trager. The doctor had been shouting, and even then, trying to stab the others with smaller blades. John lifted one of them up, stabbed them through, and tossed them aside, starting on the other. 

“Thanks, buddy.” There was something about his voice that John quite liked; something jaunty and smooth, hiding a violent malice. It reminded him of himself. “We got a couple of quitters around here.” The man stuck out a bloodied, twiglike hand; very long, delicate nails. John took it in his own, his hand dwarfing the other, and he shook it. 

“John. John Curtis.” The bigger grunted. 

“Richard. Richard Trager.”

They’d gone their separate ways; Trager off killing in his own turf, John making his own rounds in the Garden. They’d gone far enough hunting in the following weeks- the patients were unable to ration their lust for destruction of life to remain bound to one tiny area- to meet again. They talked, brief catching-ups. Trager was always quiet and amused, a twinkle in his eye that suggested he knew more than he should. Their exchanges left John wondering just when the man would turn on him and stab him in the chest with the wicked shears. John was not a friend to the doctor, nor was he a friend to John; Trager was a companion for a few moments, an acquaintance to catch up with. When Trager ran out of fresh, screaming bodies, John would simply be his newest replacement. 

It seemed someone had toppled the old doctor before his plans of betrayal could be carried out. 

He took the recently fixed corpse in his arms, carrying the poor man out to the Garden. He did not see a living soul on his walk back, save for the rats and flies. Another troubling sign; now that Trager and Walker were gone, the remaining patients should have been thriving. He’d even heard rumors that Gluskin had closed down shop and run off, too; the only real people he could think of that were any real threat anymore was Manera and the Twins. 

He should run before the Twins decided to leave their defensive status as the preacher’s guards… If they decided to start hunting again, they would find and kill John without too much difficulty. Manera, Manera he could beat. But not the Twins. 

He started the grave; he couldn’t do the full six feet with the tiny little hand shovel he’d scrounged up while making his occupancy, but he attempted three. The soil was loose and pliant under the trowel and bare hands; he’d found a locker in Gluskin’s territory (and evidently, the rumors were true, he was not around) to put Trager into. He delicately placed the old man’s body into it, closing the lid. He covered the slats of the lockers with a small square of wood, then lowered the heavy makeshift casket in. 

He pushed dirt over the lid, burying the poor bastard, and, in his mind, putting him to rest. He carefully cut a rose from the nearest bush to lay over the grave, then set a rock in at his headstone. The engraving was difficult going; it took forever to chisel in just “R. Trager”, and his arms were exhausted from the digging, hauling, and carving by the time it was all done. 

He wasn’t feeling in the mood to do much of anything as he stared at the grave he’d made. He wasn’t sure of himself anymore. He wasn’t sure just what it was he was feeling, or how to proceed from here.

He knew he had to escape the Asylum, had to get out. 

He sat down in front of the poor bastard, folding his legs and hunching his back, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at that headstone, at the clumsily lettered “R. Trager”. The wind howled, sending goosebumps up his mostly naked body, and clouds loomed on the horizon.

He would take his silent, mournful vigil, first. 

-

“Supposing we get to the elevator, and get down, and kill it, what then? We just… We leave? That’s it? Plain and simple, we just get out?” 

Waylon had been nagging him for the past thirty minutes, and it was obnoxious as hell. Boone understood the man was skittish, but this level of intense worrying was uncalled for. They would likely both die, as would Miles and Eddie and whomever still clung to life in the Asylum; it was a simple fact. Right now, they just had to try as hard as they possibly could to kill it and get out.

“We’re on a mission, Waylon.” He said sternly, marching past a shadow-man and resisting the violent impulse to attack it. It whispered something inaudible, and Boone mustered up every ounce of willpower he had to ignore it. “We’ll go back, take the elevator. If whomever is controlling the Walrider is dead, it should stop, right? Then we can get out, kill Eddie, and go on with our lives.” 

“You want to kill Eddie?” Waylon asked, shocked. “I mean- He’s not exactly the best guy, but-”

“He’s hooking you.” Boone said bluntly. “You’re getting Stockholm Syndrome, Waylon. He’s a murderer. He mutilates people. If you were a real man, you would be DEAD by now.”

Waylon flinched; Boone recognized the helpless, queasy anger on his face, and realized perhaps the implication Waylon wasn’t a man was a bit _insensitive._

He wasn’t expecting Waylon’s punch, and it sure _hurt._ Boone stumbled, clutching his jaw and staring at the slender little tech. 

“Listen to me, Boone.” Waylon said, squaring his shoulders and raising his chin, trying to look down at Boone although the man was significantly taller. “I _am_ a man, and EVERYONE is going to get out of here. No one is going to die today, other than the guy controlling the Walrider. Do you understand me?”

“Then what ARE we going to do about Eddie?” He asked in frustration. 

“Something else! We’re not killing anyone else unless we have to.”

“Are you afraid of becoming a killer?” Boone asked, voice suddenly tight and cold. “Are you afraid to be _corrupted?_ Are you afraid you’ll become like him, like Gluskin, if you get your hands a little dirty?” 

“I spent time with him!” He objected sharply. “I know what he’s like. Killing him won’t solve anything. He needs to be locked away, somewhere he’ll be safe, somewhere he can’t hurt anyone, but we can’t kill him. We won’t be any better than him if we do.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Boone grumbled.

“And you’re being too quick to snap to violence.” Waylon responded, trying to keep his voice even. “Boone, once we’re out of the Asylum, we can’t solve our problems with murder. We can’t rely on that, we can’t sink to that level. We’re both good people, and we shouldn’t taint our hands like that unless we have to.”

“You’re too soft. On him and the rest of this place.” Boone mumbled. “I would burn and kill everyone in this building, if it were up to me.” 

Thus ended their argument. 

They wandered their wary way through the Asylum; Boone fierce and determined, Waylon quiet and confused. They passed corpses, they passed old beds and creaky floorboards; they made their way into what appeared to be some sort of guard area, then generic hospital, then nice, carpeted hallway. They heard screaming behind them, long and distant, abruptly choked off. Any indication of life in this place died the second it dared rear its head. 

“We’re getting closer to the church.” Boone muttered nervously after a long while of silent walking. “Things have been hell over there ever since Martin took over. He’s leading an entire religion based around the Walrider, worshipping it as their god. I haven’t heard much, but from what I understand, the Walrider’s been forcing Martin’s congregation to act as patients, and the Twins and Martin into doctors. It’s like a demented version of playing dollhouse. It’s trying to act like everything is business as usual, with the addition of having people worship it.” 

“How do you know?” Waylon asked curiously. 

“Rats go everywhere.” He said humorlessly. “Before Thomas and the rest of us were edging in on Gluskin’s territory, I was scouting here to see if it was a suitable location to wait out the violence. We almost joined the Church of Walrider, until we realized that some people were being killed as sacrifice to the thing. And what were the chances that the we’d be first to die? Too high, for Thomas.” 

Waylon nodded in understanding. “Speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to ask… How did you meet Thomas? Or, well, all of them? Six or seven, from what I could tell?”

“Six, with Rudy’s death. Even before the riots broke out, a lot of patients banded together. For me, it was with Thomas and his brother in particular; our cells were closeby.” 

“Jesus.” Waylon murmured under his breath. “And the others…?” 

“Picked them up like stray dogs. Having a huge number helps you survive. Most of these patients prey on single victims at a time, because they can’t handle more than one.” 

Waylon paused.

“Do we need to go directly through the church in order to- y’know-” 

“I don’t think so. I think we might be able to sneak past, provided nothing goes awry.” Boone steeled himself, squaring his shoulders. “If they try to take us, we run. If they take us, we fight. You don’t want to be sacrificed.”

“That bad?” Waylon’s voice was tight. 

“Ripping your still-beating heart out of your chest and burning you alive simultaneously.” Boone shuddered slightly. “Heard rumors that if you’re not too badly burned, they chop you up and feed you to the rest of the congregation.”

Waylon was about to immediately dismiss the idea; the whole point was a sacrifice to the _Walrider,_ not to feed everyone else. But if this church had as many members as he said, then maybe, maybe…

He didn’t want to think about it. He really didn’t. 

“And if we intrude, that’s going to happen to us.” It wasn’t a question.

“Most likely. Chances are, at least. Best case scenario, they chase us out and we get to the front of the Asylum, back to the elevator, and down to the lab, where we can kill the host.” 

“Our chances of success probably aren’t very good, though.” Waylon muttered through his teeth. “Can we go another way?”

“I don’t know any way but this. I haven’t eaten two or three goddamn days, Waylon, I just… If we delay much longer, I’m literally not going to have the strength to kill the Walrider’s host. I hate to do this, I hate to risk us, but we don’t have a choice.” 

He worried at his lip. “Then let’s go.” 

-

Miles was drowning. 

He recognized the coolness of the water, once he regained consciousness, the sensation of bubbles shooting from his nose, the blurriness of his eyesight and haziness of the metal surface underneath him. When he tried to suck in air, he was choking on water and nothing else. His lungs burned and contracted as they fought to breathe, as water was jetted into them on accident from his attempt to inhale. Miles started struggling against the hand that gripped his hair, against the one pressing into the area between his shoulderblades, holding him under.

His head was abruptly yanked from the liquid, and he set about simultaneously coughing up water from his lungs and attempting to suck in as much air as he could. 

“My son.” A voice rang out, the kind that was almost scholarly in sound. “Welcome, to the Asylum.” 

Miles was roughly released, and shoved forward. His hair was slick and dripping, the collar of his jacket and front of his shirt wet from his unconscious waterboarding. He was still shaky, his sudden burst of consciousness still leaving him dazed. He turned around, letting out a small squeak; he recognized the two men behind him. They looked like fucking cavemen; misshapen heads, missing teeth, massive and barbaric, and of course, naked, ‘cause Miles just HAD to see their junk. They both wielded weapons, although the one who had just held him under the water was just gathering his cleaver from the counter.

The room was small, dingy, made of brick, lit by only a naked, dangling bulb. The place he’d been practically waterboarded in was a small little trough, like the things pigs ate out of. It was full of shockingly clean water rather than the foamy, bloody, worm-infested stuff in the sewers, or the filthy, faded brown-yellow crap that came when flushing the toilets and turning on the sinks. He supposed it must’ve been rainwater, gathered from the ample amount of storm in the Colorado area in the recent months. 

“Where am-?” He turned to face another man; overweight, (how the hell had he managed that? he’d been in the Asylum for a month, hadn’t he?) bald, wearing a ratty, filthy old robe with two straps in the form of a cross. 

“You are the Chosen.” The man whispered, leaning in. He had some pretty disturbing eyes, and Miles snapped his head away, his heart thump thump thumping in his chest. Creepy dudes with weapons? Creepy preist guy, probably convinced he was Jesus 2.0? He was slightly convinced he had died, and this was just a wild fever dream before he finally went to hell for all eternity.

“Chosen?” Miles echoed. “What do you mean, Chosen?”

“The Walrider brought you to us, my son. It carried you to us, delivered you into our hands. When you didn’t wake up, we worried the worst; that is why my friend had to put you under. ” Grubby, filthy hands tried to brush his cheek, but Miles flinched away before he could be touched. One of the Twins behind him shoved him forward warningly, and when the priest tried to grab his chin, he didn’t struggle, although he bit his tongue in revulsion. “You are the answer to our prayers; something, someone, to deliver us from sin, to connect us with our Lord, the Walrider.” 

Holy shit, they _did_ think he was Jesus.


	20. Chapter 20

I know this jump in chapters is longer than what you're used to, and I'm not going to lie and promise you all that it's going to be done soon, but I am in the process of very slowly writing a new one. It might just not come for a month or two. 

Lack of comments is disheartening, as well as school and mental illness beating my ass. 

Hope ya'll understand, and don't completely ditch Change. Here's an excerpt of the next chapter, just to prove I'm not totally abandoning this work: 

A strained, desperate whimper, blond hair curling and sticking to the sweat-damped forehead. The weight in his arms was almost negligible, the thinness of his soon-to-be wife concerning but not mind-consumingly important. He laid her on her own bed, standing up and pressing a firm touch to her chest to keep her there. She didn’t move, just shivered and made soft sniveling noises. He idly patted the side of her hip, shushing her, as he wandered over to the small sewing machine he’d left in her room, peering at sketches and retrieving a needle and thread that he’d left by the device.

“It’ll be alright, darling. I promise. No one will touch you, or hurt you again. It’s just you, just me, my love. This wouldn’t happen if you’d just stayed here…” 

He gingerly peeled her dress away, examining the torn stitching and slashes. Her wounds had already been attended to quite some time ago, but now it was time to sew up some of the more ragged tears in her clothing. He couldn’t have her dressing like an unwanted whore; she was in his care, in his service, and he’d sooner die than see her hurt. She’d been with him naught but a week, and her fevered attempts at escape were growing more and more draining on his resources and his nerves. He steeled his resolve and reminded himself to be patient. After all, she was his promised girl, with a heart reserved for him and him alone. 

Thank you for your understanding and patience!


	21. Ready, Steady, Eddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Move, John. I’m going to save her.” 
> 
> John blinked slowly, seeming to attempt to comprehend that. He drew back, into the shadows, without complaint. 
> 
> Gluskin strode past him, a fire lit anew in his heart. He’d get her back beside him, and everything would be okay again.

“Shhhh, darling. Everything will be alright, I promise you.” 

A strained, desperate whimper, blond hair curling and sticking to the sweat-damped forehead. The weight in his arms was almost negligible, the thinness of his soon-to-be wife concerning but not mind-consumingly important. He laid her on her own bed, standing up and pressing a firm touch to her chest to keep her there. She didn’t move, just shivered and made soft sniveling noises. He idly patted the side of her hip, shushing her, as he wandered over to the small sewing machine he’d left in her room, peering at sketches and retrieving a needle and thread that he’d left by the device.

“It’ll be alright, darling. I promise. No one will touch you, or hurt you again. It’s just you, just me, my love. This wouldn’t happen if you’d just stayed here…” 

He gingerly peeled her dress away, examining the torn stitching and slashes. Her wounds had already been attended to quite some time ago, but now it was time to sew up some of the more ragged tears in her clothing. He couldn’t have her dressing like an unwanted whore; she was in his care, in his service, and he’d sooner die than see her hurt. She’d been with him naught but a week, and her fevered attempts at escape were growing more and more draining on his resources and his nerves. He steeled his resolve and reminded himself to be patient. After all, she was his promised girl, with a heart reserved for him and him alone. 

-

Eddie groaned, and quite loudly, as he awoke. His head was pounding, like his skull was a drum and an enthused monkey was the drummer. He blinked, though, attempting to get some understanding of his surroundings. 

He was still in his handmade vest, still had all his clothing in tact- His signature knife was still at his side, and he tested its sharpness with his forefinger as he eyed the room. 

A bed and a padded cell. He would give ANYTHING to be back at his workshop. 

Eddie wearily got to his feet and rubbed his throat; dry as the Sahara and painful when swallowing. The Walrider’s fault, he assumed, with its little choking trick. He was confident, though, that everything would be alright just so long as he and Waylon were reunited. Such a slippery girl… Some higher power was assuredly testing his loyalty to her, with all of this nonsense, but he would be unwavering. 

He approached the door, and to his displeasure, found there was nary a knob to be seen and it appeared to be stuck in place. Undeterred, he slammed his full weight against it, over, and over, and over again. Whatever pain he experienced would all be worth it once he had her in his arms again. Once he could touch her and tease her and make love once more…

The door groaned, and Eddie slammed against it one final time, and broke it off its hinges. He found himself in a mostly abandoned cell block. The usual litter, but sans the corpses he expected. Strangely neat- there wasn’t so much as a spatter of blood or stray organ anywhere. Other than the broad, cryptic messages slathered over the wall, he would’ve said this place looked pre-breakout. 

It was disconcerting. Hardly anything gave Eddie the creeps, but it was too… Similar. It felt like someone was about to jam a needle into his arm and force tubes into his throat. It felt like leather straps were going to be placed around his wrists, and he scratched subconsciously in response. He could almost feel the sting of sanitizers and the coppery scent of blood in his nose, hear distant screaming and see the light burning through his eyelids, no matter how tight he squeezed them shut.

He hated being here, and resolved to get out and find his dearest as quickly as physically possible. She would need him. She would need him. She would love him. He was so close to having everything he ever wanted- he couldn’t allow himself to get nervous just because of some fucked up doctors who’d been playing around with his mind. He’d kill them all anyway- he HAD killed them all, every doctor he’d found in this miserable place. He gave a low growl of irritability, just for the sake of it, and curled and uncurled his fingers into fists. 

It took a bit of doing, but eventually he’d made his way to somewhere familiar. He’d traversed numerous patient facilities and doctor’s rooms, hazarded his way through splintering first and second floors, almost died in the midst of it more than once, and gained more than a few scrapes, scratches, and bruises. He wasn’t even entirely sure if he was making progress towards his darling or not- it occurred to him that he had no idea where she was. She would be making her journey towards him, of course, but the Asylum was so massive… She could get lost, or get hurt, or…

Let that _good-for-nothing slut_ convince her into leaving him!

He had to find her. He had to find her, dear God, had to hold her to his chest and pet her hair and stroke over her stomach, which assuredly would be rounded with their child after long enough. He’d kill the journalist and the black, and it would just be him and Waylon. He’d have to do it subtly, or else his wife would pitch a fit and get upset. She was less accepting towards murder, so he’d have to kill them in silence, or else make it look like an accident. 

So consumed in fuming and scheming inside his head, he didn’t even notice the fattened cannibal until John was laying a hand on his chest and halting him from his progression down the corridor. Gluskin almost swung the knife at his head, but refrained just this once. 

“Trager is dead.” John’s voice was blunt. 

“I saw him die. I know.” Gluskin motioned to push him aside and move onward.

“Where are you going? There’s nothing left in this place anymore, and you’re heading deeper into the Asylum.” 

“My wife is still here. I need her.” 

“Oh. Yes, her. The Walrider dragged her in a couple hours ago.” 

“What? Where?” 

“Gluskin.” 

“John.” Eddie bared his teeth, fingers tightening on the handle of his knife. Tempted, so tempted, to use it. Had to calm the vicious, violent urges telling him to tear into the man for wasting his time and holding back information on his darling. “Tell me where my wife is.” The ‘or else’ was left unspoken, but heavily implied by his adjusted grip on the blade and squaring of his shoulders. 

“Trager is dead.” John repeated, voice wrought with quiet, hopeless grief. 

“I KNOW. TELL me where my WIFE is!” 

“There’s nothing left here, Gluskin. Leave the Asylum.” 

“Listen to me!” Gluskin’s hand twitched. “WHERE IS MY WIFE?” 

A quiet exhale. “She was heading towards the Church with another person. Tall, muscular. Twitchy.” 

“The Church… It’s close to the elevator that leads back outside.” Cogs began turning in Gluskin’s head, thinking rapidly. What that meant, what he could do, how he could help her. “Why is she going there? She’ll just be brought back like before.”

What was she planning? His wife was a clever little minx. She ran swift, engineered brilliant plans. The voice of logic and reason, when Gluskin was in the mood to listen to her.

“Move, John. I’m going to save her.” 

John blinked slowly, seeming to attempt to comprehend that. He drew back, into the shadows, without complaint. 

Gluskin strode past him, a fire lit anew in his heart. He’d get her back beside him, and everything would be okay again. 

-

“I want his liver!” 

“I want his tongue!” 

Slapping feet, bare skin. A howl echoing in the pit of Boone’s brain. Sharp, distracting, shadows crawling the edge of his vision. Claws reached out to entangle his legs, but he moved faster, past them. The Twins were bad enough, but the things that reached out were otherwordly. Those brilliant lights again, shining from the darkness encroaching on his eyes. A tall, gangly-limbed figure appeared up ahead, and he ignored it. Not real, not real, not real, but what was real were the two men chasing him. They were fast, very fast, but Boone was faster and nimbler. 

They split up- concerning. They’d cover twice the ground, have a chance to cut Waylon and Boone off. Boone skidded down a corner and burst into a hallway full of the Church’s congregation. Kneeling at the foot of their beds, praying, judging by the doors that were ajar. He only caught glimpses as he tore past, dirtied and bloodied footprints sullying the poor carpet. 

Waylon reached the door across the hall first, jerking it open and giving a whimpered noise of dismay when they’re met with the back of a pile of lockers and a bookshelf jammed up against it, blocking the way.

Boone’s head whipped back- The twins hadn’t turned the corner down the hall yet, but they would soon. The grimy red tracks they’d left were so distinct even a toddler could track them. 

“We might need to hide- one of the rooms-” Waylon’s eyes darted, looking for a route of escape. “This way- We could break a window in one of those rooms, slide out on the windowsill-” 

“No. They could follow us, and we could fall off.” Adrenaline, made his heart pump unpleasantly in his ears. Was that his heart, or an auditory hallucination? It sounded like there were two racing hearts instead of one, but he could feel it pulsing in his body. “I’ve got an idea.” 

“Good, because we don’t have a lot of time.” Waylon anxiously glanced down the hallway. 

“Here goes.” Boone mumbled, bracing himself. He slammed his shoulder against the side of the locker, which made a loud CLANG, but they were already being followed. Might as well give them a sound to help out. “Waylon, help me!” 

Waylon hurried over without so much as a word, helping Boone push and strain at the locker. After a couple seconds of straining, where the locker didn't budge so much as an inch, Boone began to feel numb, helpless. His heart felt like it'd ceased beating, and he thought that they’d legitimately be killed here- But a moment later, the locker tipped over when the bookshelf’s wood gave way. The two stumbled into the next room, clumsily crashing into one another since they’d not expected the locker to budge. At the same time, one of the twins rounded the corner and began charging after them. 

Boone drew back, shoving Waylon forward and urging him on. Had to keep the tech and his camera safe.

He’d slammed the door shut when the cleaver-wielding murderer was roughly half-way down the hall, and pushed Waylon forward. Had to get somewhere one of the Twins couldn’t follow. A narrow gap, someplace that required an agile maneuver to get somewhere out of their reach. There was no way either of the Twins would fit in an air vent, or something small and cramped. 

“This way.” Waylon gripped Boone’s sleeve hard, tugging him down the hall. Through a door. Junk piled all over the room. A tiny crawlspace was visible underneath the heap of bookshelves, upturned desks, and the skeletons of beds without their mattresses. Waylon quickly got to his hands and knees, scooting through the short space, and Boone quickly followed suit. 

They crawled into a dimly lit space- a flickering bulb overhead. More junk lay ahead of them, in the same tunnelesque shape. Judging by the empty cans of food, someone had used this place as a shelter for a little while. Whether it was a patient, a guard, or a doctor, it now served as a nice place for Waylon and Boone to just sit and catch their breath. The Twins weren’t going to be able to move the massive quantity of junk to get to them, if they even figured out which room Boone and Waylon had sought shelter in. 

Waylon let out a wheezy little breath, sitting down and dragging his knees up to his chest and resting his forehead on them. Boone sat in a similar position, gently massaging the skin underneath his eyes and attempting to recover from adrenaline and the aftershocks. His hallucinations had mercifully decided to leave him alone, just for now. No whispering, no peering eyes, no shadow-men. Just him, Waylon, and their quiet breathing. 

Now. Now, all they had to do was finish their run through the Church territory, then get to the elevator, then get down and kill the Walrider’s host. Then, dear God, he could go home. 

Now that he had time to consider it, he wasn’t sure what he’d go home to. His mother and father? Not likely. He wasn’t even sure what state they were in- Hell, if they were even alive. The same for his little sister.

Waylon would help him find them. 

Oh. Waylon. Did Waylon have any family to get home to? For that matter, did Miles? Or even Gluskin? Gluskin definitely didn’t have a significant other that was waiting for him, but Boone was willing to guess his parents were still alive, or at the very least, he had an uncle, a distant cousin, something. It was rare that a person had absolutely no one related to them left. 

Gluskin wasn’t exactly the cuddly type, though, so he might try to ditch whatever surviving family he had and try to carve his own path in the world. More likely than not, if the Groom didn’t die in the ensuing escape attempt, Waylon would get Gluskin institutionalized somewhere less… Boone didn’t have a word to fully encompass the entirety of the horror in the Asylum, but it was suffice to say Waylon would never put Gluskin through this- this- absolute _hell_ again. Waylon was too lenient, too forgiving of the murderous, mutilating psychopath- But, Boone supposed that the Groom had paid for whatever he’d done before the Asylum when he’d been subjected to the Morphogenic Engine Program and the rest of Mount Massive. 

Not to say that Boone wanted to see Gluskin running free. He couldn’t really think of anyone in the Asylum who deserved to completely and totally free, barring Waylon and Miles. Boone doubted that he, himself, should be given any kind of liberty. If he couldn’t find his family, he’d probably try to get into a mental institution right alongside Gluskin. (Well, maybe not ‘right beside’; possibly in an institution across the country from Gluskin’s, if he could manage it.) Boone had _killed_ people in the Asylum- He was a murderer, riddled with schizophrenia, and the ‘treatment’ at Mount Massive had only made it worse. He wasn’t sure he could function in life outside a mental institution- Not without jumping at every sound, not without his hallucinations growing more severe. Not without hurting or killing people. 

“Boone?” Waylon’s voice was faint. His throat was probably sandpaper-raw due to their marathon through the Church, poor man. “You look like you’re off somewhere else. Are you alright?” 

“Mmm? Just thinking a little.” 

“About?” 

“Going home.” 

“We’re almost there.” Waylon said encouragingly. He hesitated a moment, then gently patted Boone’s knee. “We just have to beat the bad guy, get out, go home. We might have to walk out of here, if we can’t find Miles’ jeep, but I think anything is better than staying behind.” 

“Yeah. Almost there. Almost there.” Boone mumbled quietly.

“Alright. I’m feeling a bit better… If you’re up to it, we can go.” 

“Okay.” Boone nodded, taking a deep, steadying breath. Seemed almost like they were taking turns comforting one another.

Waylon was the first to crawl out; Boone’s heart almost stopped when the man gave a sharp, startled cry, and stared in shock as someone forcibly dragged the struggling tech free of the tunnel, and out into the next room.

“Waylon- _Waylon!”_

Self-preservation be damned, himself be damned, he scrambled after Waylon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S BEEN LIKE 5 MONTHS BUT HEY I'M NOT DEAD
> 
> I am SO sorry if the characters seem, well, out of character, because it's been a while since I've written 'em, and I've forgot a bunch of my canon. I had to go back and check who was and wasn't dead... As with every chapter, this chapter is unbeta'd.
> 
> ( huge s/o callmearcturus, while I was writing I had your comment in another tab to look at for motivation <3 )


	22. Apostleypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m… Disappointed.” 
> 
> “Martin preaches patience.” 
> 
> “I know.” 
> 
> “We’ll get what we deserve eventually.” 
> 
> “Yes. I can’t wait.”

Miles was dealing with the situation surprisingly well, in his opinion. He stood silently, facing a window, in a big, important office that’d probably belonged to a head executive or really important guy or something. He was looking out, contemplatively, at the setting sun and was mentally cursing every single god he could rattle off in his head, including the Walrider and several cuss words for good measure. 

Miles momentarily contemplated jumping from the window. He probably wouldn’t kill himself on impact, but he’d likely break both of his legs and hurt a whole fuckton, then die of blood loss or shock or something. There was nothing but cold concrete in the pavilion outside the window, and the jagged, skeletal outline of a rather sharp-looking tree. He wondered which would hurt worse- smacking unhindered into hard concrete and breaking the bones in his legs, or getting scratched and impaled by those branches, and _then_ falling and breaking his ankle or a toe or whatever. Of course, this was all assuming that the glass in the window wouldn’t slice him up when he jumped out, or the glass wasn’t that break-proof safety glass shit. 

He took a deep, steadying breath, closing the window and turning around to talk to Father Martin. He’d been waiting, diligently, in front of Miles’ new big, important executive desk, scattered with blank or deeply bloodstained papers. Miles looked up tiredly at the priest, and cleared his throat. 

“Okay. So, I’m like, the chosen one, or whatever. What does that mean?” 

“I am not entirely sure, my son. What I know is only that He has delivered you unto us, and you have been Chosen.” 

“Okay. Um, yeah, so-” Miles thought furiously, struggling to sort his priorities. One, he needed to get away from this creepy sect of patients. Two, he needed to find Boone and Waylon. Three, he needed to figure out how to get the Walrider to leave him alone. If he was ‘chosen’, or whatever, shouldn’t it listen to him? Maybe he could talk to it and convince it to leave him and Waylon the hell alone. Regarding the other members of this little group, at this point, he preferred the Walrider rip Eddie apart, and although Boone’d been helpful, he wasn’t sure if he wanted the man to join them in the Jeep. He’d been institutionalized for a reason, hadn’t he?

“What does that mean for me? Am I s’posed to, like, lead you or something? Am I, like, Walrider Jesus?” 

He looked up at Miles sternly, and he held out his hands in a gesture for peace. 

“You’re to wait here, until the Walrider has made your purpose and our destiny clear; He will tell us all, in time… But until then, you’re to stay in the Church, my son. Your purpose, until your true purpose amongst us has been named, will be to give the congregation hope in these trying times, and to possibly connect us further with our shadowy Lord.” 

“Um, okay. How long will that take?” 

“I do not know, my son. Rest assured, you will be fed and cared for in your stay here, however long it may take. We are not barbarians- the Walrider has given us insight, a piece of civility and security within this place.” 

Miles chewed on that for a moment, and a thought suddenly struck him. ‘Barbarians’, ‘civility’, ‘security’- Where were Eddie, Waylon, and Boone?

“Hey, there’s some people I’m looking for. My, um, apostles.” 

“Apostles, my son?” 

“Yeah. Um. There’s three of ‘em- Short guy, wearing a dress, short blond hair. He’s got another guy with him, or, at least, he should. Black man, wearing a patient uniform. Really frizzy hair. There’s another freak, too- wearing a vest, got a fucked up face.” 

“I know of two of them- The first two. They’re the intruders I heard about.” 

“Intruders?” Alarm and fear struck through him. A sick feeling in his stomach, dread. He hoped to God Waylon wasn’t dead, or, or- 

“Yes. The Twins went to scare them off not long ago.” 

“W- Are they going to kill them?” 

“Don’t worry, my son. I will ask them to spare your apostles, if they have not been caught already. If they have… You can always find more. There are plenty of those in the congregation who would loyally serve you to their last breath.” 

“These two are special!” Miles snapped. “Go, go, tell the Twins that they’re off limits and shit!” 

“My son, I’m not certain-” 

“God dammit, I’m not going to be alone here!” Oh, God, he’d gotten so used to having stupid Waylon and stupid Boone around, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay sane if he was left in this cult without any rational voices. He missed not hearing religious mumbo-jumbo. “They’re my apostles! Get the Twins to stop!” 

Father Martin frowned, looking a little annoyed at being ordered around, but Miles didn’t really care at this point. If he could stop Waylon from dying, then fuck yeah, he’d push Martin around. The priest had proven himself to be rather docile in the couple hours Miles had spent around him, barring the whole ‘drowning him to wake him up’ incident. 

“I will do my best, my son.” Martin turned and strode out, leaving Miles in the office. Miles noticed, with some apprehension, that the priest locked the door behind himself. Evidently, although he was the ‘Chosen One’, Martin didn’t exactly trust Miles to not abuse any kind of liberty. 

Miles plodded over to the bed, feeling increasingly helpless. He’d gained the reputation of a selfish jerk, and while he believed it was more important to look after himself before everyone else, he couldn’t leave without knowing Waylon’s fate. And if he turned up alive, then he couldn’t just leave Waylon here, to those psychopaths and murderers. 

True, he’d been willing to leave Waylon and Boone behind, but that was when Miles had freedom right within his reach. When Miles had escaped, and could finally go home and get out of this hell, with absolutely nothing standing in his way. Now that he was back in this hell… He needed all the help he could get, and it changed his goals. Now it wasn’t just “get out”, it was “get out, preferably with Waylon”. 

He collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling. Nothing to do now but wait. 

-

“Boone!” Waylon squealed desperately. He beat his fists against the massive hand currently holding him by the throat, half-suffocating him, and when that didn’t work, scraping his fingernails desperately against the wrist and leaving bloody tracks in the cleaver-wielding Twin’s arm. “Boone!” 

He expected that cleaver to gut him, to be plunged into his stomach, rip him open, and spill his entrails all across the floor. He expected searing pain, a wet slap of his organs- he expected to _die._

But he didn’t.

Instead, the world seemed to whirl for a moment, and he was carelessly slung over the brutish man’s shoulder. It took him a second to get his bearings, and he stilled, instinctively. Gluskin had thrown Waylon over his shoulder on occasion, and trained it into him to not squirm. When he squirmed, he was, humiliatingly enough, spanked, and Eddie was certainly not any kind of ‘gentle’ in his spankings. 

“Boone!” He cried, digging his nails into the man’s fleshy back. “Boone-!” 

To his relief, Boone crawled out from the tunnel, getting to his feet and brandishing a heavy-looking slab of wood. Not as effective as a cleaver, but it would definitely _hurt_ if you were hit over the head with it. 

Unfortunately the other Twin, who’d been leaning back in the shadows, decided it would be prudent to intervene. 

He lunged forward, slamming into Boone. The man’s momentum was enough to carry the both of them into the wall across the room. While Boone was momentarily stunned, he was grabbed by the hair, and the Twin repeatedly slammed his face into the wall. Waylon could hear the crunch of his nose breaking, and the gush of blood that was the result. His head was bashed in close to a dozen times before he was let go, brokenly slumping to the ground. His nose was crushed, almost unrecognizable as a ‘nose’, and the sight of his unconscious body made Waylon both terrified and sick. 

“Boone!” Waylon screamed, fingernails ripping into his captor’s back. “Put me down! Put me d-” 

He _was_ put down- roughly thrown onto the wooden floorboards, breath driven from his body. It was pain, for a moment, where he desperately attempted to breathe, but his body refused to comply. 

When he finally drew breath into his lungs, the two Twins were looming over him, looking like misshapen, inbred demons given human form.

“He’s going to settle down now.” As if Waylon weren’t conscious, and they weren’t speaking to him. 

“I’m not sure he’s smart enough. I’d love to have to rip out his tongue to keep him quiet.” 

“Martin will be mad.” 

“True.” 

“We’ll take him. And if he resists…” 

A smile. “I understand.” 

The twin with hair moved away from Waylon, lifting up Boone’s body and nonchalantly throwing the unconscious man over his shoulder. His _face…_

Waylon didn’t offer resistance, only grit his teeth and promised revenge when the bald twin tossed the him over his shoulder. 

“He’s decided to be wise.” The hairless twin observed quietly, as the Twins set out with their new prisoners in tow. 

“I’m… Disappointed.” 

“Martin preaches patience.” 

“I know.” 

“We’ll get what we deserve eventually.” 

“Yes. I can’t wait.” 

That was the extent of the conversation for the short while Waylon was in the man’s fireman carry. 

After not too long, having the twin’s shoulder jamming into the soft flesh just above his pelvis started to hurt, and after a full ten minutes of walking, he just wanted the pain and the uncertainty of his fate to just stop. He had no idea what the Twins were intending to do to the both of them, and wasn’t sure what kind of shape Boone would be in after the beating he’d just taken. No way to run, no way to fight, no way to hide, and Boone had been his only friend and only advantage in this hell.

After five minutes of worrying about what was to come, they were put in a plain room. It was made of brick, with nothing but a little shelf and two sturdy-looking wooden chairs, and Waylon and Boone were quickly put into the aforementioned chairs. The Twins procured rough, bloodstained rope from the shelf, and tied Waylon’s hands firmly behind his back. Boone was left to bonelessly slump for a moment, but after Waylon’s hands were bound, he was similarly tied. The floor _looked_ spotless, but judging by the color of the rope and the suspicious tang of blood, Waylon had a nauseating feeling that they were not the first people to be in here, and might just be the latest to die.

After checking the rope to make sure it would hold, the Twins left without another word, locking the door behind them. 

Waylon occupied himself with checking the strength of the rope. He pulled, wriggled, squirmed, got fed up and cursed viciously to try and make himself feel better, and went back to trying to break free. All he earned for himself was numb hands, exhaustion, dread, defeat, and rope burn, none of which were pleasant feelings.

He stewed in his own misery for a while, trying to keep a clearer head, trying to remain calm and rational. If they were going to be killed, they would be dead by now. If the Twins truly wanted Boone and Waylon to be gutted and bled, they would be. They wouldn’t have dragged them off and forced them to wait, right? His guess was they usually killed prey when they caught it, as did most of the Asylum inhabitants. 

That lead to another question, though: For what purpose were they being kept? They mentioned Father Martin, the same person Boone had when warning Waylon about the Church and its congregation. Were they going to be those ‘sacrifices’ Boone mentioned? Or did they have some other purpose? 

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door unlocking and opening, and to Waylon’s utter astonishment, the person who walked in was none other than _Miles._

“Miles!? What the hell-” 

“Oh, thank GOD you’re alive, I thought those caveman fucks had killed you or something.” 

“No- I’m fine, but they hurt Boone-” 

“He’s not dead, is he?” 

“No- I’ve been listening to him wheeze for the past hour, he’s alive, but unconscious, and his nose is broken.” 

“Okay. Okay. Alright, you, me, and him are gonna make a plan, and we’re gonna get the hell outta here-” 

“We can’t.” 

“What!? Why the fuck not? Oh my GOD, if this is about _Eddie,_ I’m gonna fucking _scream,_ I swear to fuck.” 

“It’s not! We can’t leave until the Walrider is dead.” 

“Wait, do you know how to kill it? It can _be_ killed?” 

“Yes! Yes, I know how to kill it, Miles, untie my hands, and we have to get moving!” 

“Shit, Waylon, I can’t. Martin and those inbred jerkoffs are going to kill us if I try to run away, especially if I try to run away with _you.”_

“Wait a minute, how do you know about them? How did you get here to begin with? And-” 

“Look, the short version is, the Walrider dumped me on Martin’s bed, and now everyone in the Church and congregation think I’m, like, Walrider Jesus. They think I’m here so they can commune with the Walrider or something.” 

“If you’re ‘Walrider Jesus’, then tell them to let us go!” 

“I don’t think they trust me, Way. Martin’s even outside right now, making sure I don’t try and run off with you- He won’t let me leave, not until the Walrider gives me a ‘purpose’.” 

Waylon paused, taking a breather to just think. How to get out of this… 

There had to be a way out, there was always a way out.

“Wait! I know, I know. They said you could commune with the Walrider, right? Well, it’s controlled by a- by a host. I know where the host is, or, well, where it should be. Tell Martin you’re going down there so you can talk with it clearer, or something along those lines, and you need to take us with you. While we’re down there, Boone kills whoever it is, we run from the congregation, and get out.” 

“That…” Miles paused. “Might just work. Oh my God, oh my God. That might just work. And once the host is dead, we can just, like, leave, right? No more big spooky ghost thing?” 

“No more big spooky ghost thing.” Waylon confirmed, a weak smile forming on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betcha thought another one of THESE wouldn't be coming out for another couple months.
> 
> I'm happy to disappoint >B)
> 
> ( Two minor things to touch on- One, I think we're FINALLY nearing an ending, after dragging all of this out for so long. Two, I love coming up with horrible chapter titles and this one was great )


	23. Beginning of the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His fingers were shaking. His heart was beating, jackhammer pounding. His breathing- noisy and unsteady. Adrenaline coursing through his body, his pulse thrumming in his ears, the unsteady breath of his companions the only sound other than the elevator’s descent. 
> 
> By the end of all of this, they would either be free, or be dead.

Miles was a good storyteller. He was known for telling excessively braggy stories during family gatherings or outings with friends, that couldn’t possibly be true, and was good at spinning elaborate, convincing yarns when he had to. The story he was about to sell to Martin would determine whether if he and Waylon could escape from this hell-pit, or if they’d remain here and inevitably starve to death when the Asylum ran clean out of food. Either that, or Miles would turn cannibal in desperation and start nomming on the icky corpses of filthy, insane patients. Or, an even quicker death, Father Martin decided for some arbitrary reason Miles need to be sacrificed to the Walrider. 

To avoid all of those fates, Miles would have to tell Father Martin the biggest lie of his life. 

Nice to know there was no pressure or anything. 

He left Waylon and Boone in bound and in those chairs, telling Father Martin he was tired, and he was planning on taking a nap. In all honesty, he lay awake, trying to perfect the story he was going to tell to Father Martin. The man was completely nuts, so it wouldn’t be that hard to convince him, right? If they thought Miles was the ‘Chosen One’, he should have a little bit of sway, and he could abuse that and Martin’s fear and reverence of the Walrider. The only part of the plan he hadn’t worked out is what they’d do when they got back OUT of the elevator. Martin wouldn’t let them just leave, would he? 

He’d have to think of something on the fly.

About two hours after his pretend-nap, he let out a very convincing bloodcurdling scream, imitating the death scream he’d heard from dozens of patients. Like clockwork, Father Martin burst through the door. “What happened?” 

“I had a dream.” Miles kept his voice low and husky, trying to channel the ‘spooky happenings’ vibe. “The Walrider…” 

“What did you see, my son?” Father Martin hurried over, laying his hand on Miles’ shoulder. He resisted the impulse to jerk away. “Dear Lord, He has given you a vision.” 

“I saw… White. Lots of white- A vision of an elevator. My apostles were with me, the three of us under the ground to see His truth. We would come back… Enlightened.” Maybe after this was all over, he could pick up a job as a thespian. If he pulled this off, screw all those assholes in Hollywood, _he_ was the best actor in the country.

“The elevator…” Father Martin whispered, under his breath. “I know of the elevator you speak of, the place beneath the Earth. The Walrider’s dwelling… Yes. You and your apostles- You must go down there. You must see His truth, my son. Immediately.” 

“Of course, Father.” Miles nodded, inwardly screaming for joy. One point for Miles, zero for the cult of freakish psychos. “I’m gonna need my apostles, and stuff. I have a feeling that they’re very, very important.” 

“Yes, of course- You’ll leave immediately, all the better to learn His truth. Follow me, child.” 

Miles swiped the camera off his big executive desk, set it at his side, and followed the psycho priest. 

By the time Miles got down there, Boone was awake- Judging by the way he didn’t question it when Father Martin sawed through his ropes and babbled about them bringing about some kind of enlightenment, Waylon had already filled him in as to the plan. 

Both of them rubbed their wrists, flexing their fingers and wincing as their circulation came back. Miles felt a little bad for leaving them tied up for so long, but it would be suspicious if he immediately went to Father Martin about a vision. 

“Come on, my apostles.” Miles proclaimed, in the most authoritative and holy voice he could muster. “We have to get down there, have to learn the Walrider’s truth.” 

“Coming.” Boone grunted, ceasing his gentle massaging of his poor wrist. “Waylon, you ready for this?” 

“Yeah. I’m ready.” Waylon swallowed slightly. 

“I will lead you to the elevator, my children. I will show you to the Walrider’s dwelling- But this is a journey you all must undertake alone. If I were meant to accompany you, He would have told me- This is something you all must do by yourselves.” 

Grim nods all around- The three of them knew this journey to the Walrider’s host would be much more risky than the Father thought. Miles wondered just what the others were thinking- If they were afraid. Miles certainly was. Scared, angry, confused- a constant in the Asylum. The only reason he hadn’t crawled under a bed gibbering in fear was because his anger carried him through. Because he was not going to lay down and die, dammit, not for this fucking insane Asylum, not for the Walrider, not when he was so fucking close to going home and living the rest of his life. 

He didn’t think Boone was afraid. He just looked- Cold, and hard. He didn’t look like he cared whether he lived or died, only cared that the Walrider would die. Of course, that could just be a facade- Miles wasn’t the only aspiring actor around here.

“Follow me, my children.” Father Martin said- He left the room, quickly leading the lot of them down through a hallway. They passed the doors of a chapel, a cross decorating the middle of the room bearing the charred remains of someone sacrificed. Waylon turned his gaze, but Miles only saw Boone’s eyes harden. Miles elected to go the Waylon route, and chose not to focus on it as the preacher lead them down long, carpeted stairways, until they finally reached the elevator once more. 

The elevator lay at the bottom of the shaft, so the stairways were unlocked with the aid of Father Martin’s key, allowing them onto the ground floor. Martin ushered them into the elevator, gazing at them in a mixture of sadness, reverence, and longing. Miles had to resist the urge to scream and fling himself at the doors of the lobby, to run as fast as his legs could carry him out of the Asylum, but he did not. He simply breathed and allowed himself to step into the elevator, crowded by the other two occupants. Miles did his best to jam himself into a corner to allow everyone else a bit of space, but it was much better than the time the psychopathic Gluskin had been with them. Everyone had been squashed like sardines in a can then- It was considerably better, now. 

“This… This is as far as I can go, my son.” He spoke directly to Miles, his lumpy potato-face twisted into a sad frown. “Return to me- Tell me what He had to say, of us, of you. I have faith, my son, that you will return to me. That you will not be torn into by our Lord’s wrath, that you will truly be our Chosen One- The deliverer of the truth.” 

His hand hovered over the edge of the elevator’s panel of buttons. Martin gave a soft, low sound, and reached into his robe, procuring a brilliant blue feather, offering it to Miles. “It came from a bird that flew into the church, rested on top of the cross. It shed this feather, and flew off. It means something, I can feel it- And I want you to take it. It may keep you well, my son.”

Miles accepted the feather, giving Waylon a sideways glance when the man visibly paled. 

Martin gave a deep inhalation, and he pressed the button. 

“Goodbye, my son. And good luck.” 

The gated doors of the elevator slid shut, and with a soft, creaky groan, it began to gradually slide downward. 

Miles wasn’t sure if it was the downward motion, or nerves that made him feel like his heart and stomach were sinking, but he was pretty sure it was a combination of both. 

His fingers were shaking. His heart was beating, jackhammer pounding. His breathing- noisy and unsteady. Adrenaline coursing through his body, his pulse thrumming in his ears, the unsteady breath of his companions the only sound other than the elevator’s descent. 

By the end of all of this, they would either be free, or be dead. 

-

Eddie Gluskin was not having a good time. 

Manera was currently blocking his way, saw revving noisily, the wild, crazed look in his eye practically the cannibal’s trademark. The hunger in his posture, in his face- It disgusted Eddie, and also infuriated him. Eddie could very well die in this confrontation, and where would that leave him? Alone, separated from his wife. No, no- He would not lose this conflict. He would not die today.

“It’s just you and me, Gluskin- And I need to eat. I need to eat!” 

_“SLUT!”_ Eddie shouted back at Manera. “Murderous, filthy, heart-breaking whore!” 

Manera lunged, and Eddie dodged, banging a knee in the narrow corridor and lashing out with his knife. He caught the tip of the old man’s forearm, who let out a screech of pain and kicked blindly, too weak to do any real damage. Before he could strike with the saw, Eddie danced backward, keeping his distance. Both took a breath, judging each other from the exchange. Manera was physically weaker, and now injured- but his saw had greater range, and Eddie was a bigger target. They sized the other up, like fighting animals, and went back at it again. The saw cut into Eddie’s hip, sawing through his dress shirt and skin on the swing and he let out a hoarse shout of pain. Reflexively, he stabbed downward, the knife slamming into Manera’s collarbone and nicking his neck, although non fatally.

Manera jumped back, cursing up a storm, his free hand flying to cover the wound, and Eddie went on the attack while he was distracted. He stepped in and stabbed the knife into his stomach, jerking it out and plunging it in once, twice, three times before Manera counterattacked, the buzzsaw whirring noisily and making sick, fleshy sounds as it cut into the Groom’s shoulder.

Eddie let out a loud noise of pain, removing the knife from its sheath in Manera’s belly and striking for the cannibal’s arm, in a panicked frenzy to get away from the serrated blade. Manera let out a twisting squeal of pain as the knife imbedded in the soft tissue of his inner elbow, dropping the saw in his agony. This opened up the opportunity for Eddie to yank out his knife, to deliver a finishing blow-

Manera punched him in the fucking face. Eddie staggered backward, giving a snarl of pain, as the man got down on his hands and knees and fumbled for the saw. Eddie’s foot slammed into the cannibal’s jaw, knocking him backward and producing a scream of agony. Judging from the blood currently leaving his lips, he’d bitten off part of his tongue. 

“You’ve lost, whore.” Eddie spat. “Accept it.” 

Manera let out soft, frenzied little animal noises, the best he could produce with a bitten tongue. Rather than fight, he got into a stand and attempted to flee, unsteady and toddling on his legs, weakened from age, blood loss, and the effort spent in the fight. Eddie outpaced him easily, and when he caught up, slit his throat. 

“One less person to worry about.” He muttered, wiping his blade on Manera’s rapidly cooling skin. He made a pathetic thump as his body fell to the floorboards, and Eddie gave him no further notice. 

One down, three left. The Walrider, the Twins, and John were the only threats left to contend with, and John would be no trouble at all. 

He paused, assessing his injuries. The shoulder wound was bad- burned and bled- but he couldn’t reach. The hip wound wasn’t as bad, but he could reach it, so he quickly sutured the ends of skin together using spare needle and thread. During the impromptu stitching, he thought about what Manera’s death meant for him, for the rest of the Asylum, for Waylon. Manera’s death was significant, the same as Trager, the same as Walker. 

It meant that he was one step closer to finding his darling Waylon. One step closer to leaving, having a life together, with _her._

Oh, he couldn’t wait to have her back in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, unbeta'd
> 
> (we're getting close, you guys)


	24. All the Loose Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re going to make it through this, Miles.” Waylon said, nudging his shoulder gently.
> 
> “Everyone ready?” Boone cut through their chatter, eyes rigidly focused on the door to his left. “Three.” 
> 
> “Two.” Miles muttered, tense.
> 
> “One.” Waylon breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA HAHAHAH REMEMBER WHEN I REGULARLY RELEASED UPDATES? I DON'T EITHER LMAO. This will probably be the first (maybe only) multi-chapter +50k fic that I'll finish, cos guess WHAT we're not that FAR AWAY FROM THE END WOOO

“You know, this place is cleaner than I thought it would be.” Miles peered around, voice jokey but shaking terribly. Waylon quietly appreciated the effort to stay humorous in such a dark time, so he let the man continue uninterrupted. “So white. Fuckin’... White crap everywhere. No fuckin’ blood. If I woke up here, I would’ve thought we’d been moved to an Arctic base for the military or something.” 

“You get used to it if you work down here long enough.” Waylon nodded at him. “Come on- Through here.”

It was so eerily familiar- A place he hadn’t been for close to a month, the place he’d worked and lived for two weeks prior to the initial riot. Familiar, and yet- It felt so much different than the last time he’d walked through here. He was weighted with experience and suffering- It wasn’t the hall that had changed, but him. 

He felt like he’d aged twenty years in only a few weeks. 

“Be wary.” Boone cautioned. “It’s going to want to protect itself. It has to know that we’re down here by now.” 

“Good. Great. Just to let you know, if I see it, I am going to trip one of you and run away, probably screaming like a little girl.” 

“Miles, that’s not helping.” Waylon tried not to sound too harsh, but even if Miles said it in jest, Waylon wondered for a moment if Miles was actually going to scramble into an every-man-for-himself free-for-all if it came down to facing the Walrider again. God, he hoped not. It was going to be difficult enough to survive and escape without sabotaging one another. 

“Sorry. My nerves are all jangled.” Miles muttered. Seemed even he was disheartened. Great. Good. Wonderful. 

“Everybody, shut up.” Boone ordered gruffly. “The more you talk, the more conspicuous, and the more conspicuous, the more likely we’re going to end up dead.”

“The spooky ghost asshole has ears? You’re fucking kidding me.” Miles snorted, quietly pushing open a door and peering around the room within curiously. “Oh, shit, was this a cafeteria? I’m so fucking hungry, oh my God.” He was rambling for the sake of talking, and Waylon knew it- Miles was talking so he wouldn’t have to think about getting killed, so he wouldn’t have to think about the seemingly insurmountable task that lay ahead of them. Waylon was half-gibbering with fear himself, and the only one of the trio who seemed capable of keeping his cool was Boone. 

“We can’t afford to focus on food, for God’s sake.” Boone was gradually growing snappish, more irritated, and Waylon realized maybe his anxiety about killing the Walrider was manifesting in anger rather than fear. “If you die, eating won’t matter, and if you live, you can do it after.” Boone’s gaze swept critically over a tray bearing a squishy, fleshy blob that was likely inside someone a week ago. “Besides, I hear the food is... grisly.” 

“Was that s’posed to be a joke? I’m actually fuckin’ proud, man.” Miles lay his hand over his heart, mock-sincere. “Boone’s first joke. I should get a picture, put this in a scrapbook. I wish I’d been recording.” He held up his camera, hand shaking so badly he nearly dropped it. Miles realized he was shaking, and smiled nervously, tucking the camera back in its place in his jacket. 

“Guys, shut up for a second! Is that-?” Waylon pointed, violently, towards the end of the cafeteria, where a cloudy black swarm was starting to congregate. 

The Walrider’s shapeless form glided towards them, like a particularly furious ghost. 

“Fuck!” Boone cursed- He immediately grabbed Waylon’s hand, doubling back towards the door they’d first come in. Miles followed, a footstep behind, and Boone scrambled through the clean, white hallways without looking back. Waylon tried to look back, to see the Walrider, but Boone snarled for him to pay attention, to keep looking ahead. Miles had his camera up, night vision letting him see the thing, recording its motions. It darted all over the place, trying to catch up with them, but it wasn’t too incredibly fast and they had a good lead on it.

Waylon darted through a vent, followed by Miles, then Boone- just barely fast enough to get past the Walrider, whose fingers dented the rim of the vent as it tried to follow them. They fell into another room, looking at the vent warily in preparation to run. However, its advance seemed to have stopped, so they all stood there miserably, panting and dazed.

“Ohhhhmygod we did it nobody’s dead oh my fucking god-” Miles’ chest heaved, and he let out a wheezy, shaky laugh. “Everyone still got all their bits? Good, we fuckin’, we fuckin’ beat that thing, fuck yeah-” 

“We didn’t beat it.” Boone looked in a similar state of chase exhilaration, trying to shake off the violent ebb of adrenaline. “Ghhh… It’s getting harder and harder to tell all these hallucinations apart. I thought I saw three Walriders, did you two see-?”

“Just the one.” Waylon said gently. “Are you sure you still want to keep going? You- You could turn back, go in the elevator-” 

“And have it kill both of you, then butcher me? I’m coming with you, hallucinations be damned.” He scrubbed his face with his hands, fingers scraping against his eyelids, a deep inhalation making his chest swell. “I may… Have to ask you, what’s real, and what’s not, but I’m- I think I can keep it together.” 

“Alright, just, if you try to kill us, I’m not taking that lying down.” Miles shook his head. “So try not to go crazy, Boone.” 

The man grunted, and it was unanimously decided that their little bit of rest and relaxation was over. They paced through a long white corridor, intercepted by long white hallways filled with small, clinical rooms. Waylon poked around in them, as if hoping to find something useful, but overall, they found nothing. 

“Can you figure this out, Waylon?” Miles squinted at what looked to be a whiteboard, scribbled with numbers and symbols that swam under his eyes. He was terrible at math in school, and had turned to journalism because of it- there wasn’t a chance in hell he was getting a sciency job when he could barely figure out how to find the perimeter of a triangle. Words, though, words weren’t that bad to deal with. “You’re all smarts, aren’t you? Software engineer and all that.” 

“Software engineering and mechanical engineering are very different, Miles.” Still, though, he stepped up, peering at the board. A moment later, he shook his head. “I have no idea what this means. It’s smudged in some places, and I don’t know what these variables represent- it might as well all be in Greek.” Waylon was a little annoyed at that. His only real use thus far had been to distract and soothe Eddie, and the one place in which he could do more than just be a walking vagina, and he was absolutely worthless. 

Miles swung his camera up, to snap a picture and record, then started scuffing out the careful letters, numbers, and symbols with his jacket sleeve. “Don’t want any of this shit happening again.” He muttered in explanation to the other two, as soon as he’d finished wiping it all away. “But, just in case we need that nerd formula to beat the Walrider, got it all in here.” A quick tap to the camera.

“I don’t think they would’ve put their formula on an easily erasable whiteboard and not put it anywhere else.” Boone snorted derisively. “Murkoff is a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. Whoever’s pulling the strings, whoever owns this place- I’m willing to bet he’s got the very same formula somewhere.” 

“Shut up, man. It’s symbolic.” Miles folded his arms, huffy and obviously annoyed his gesture was ultimately meaningless.

“Gentlemen, please, we have some work to do, don’t we?” Waylon spread his arms placatingly. “We’re not far from the Morphogenic Engine chamber, and not far from whoever’s controlling it.” 

The other two nodded grimly, and off the three of them went.

The journey continued being uneventful- Waylon led them faithfully through dozens of doors, and when they came to a locked one, Boone did his best to knock it down and slam it off its hinges. It took a while, but eventually it caved under the strain, and they found themselves in a small office room, or, more likely, a security checkpoint. Miles swiped a file off a desk, leafed through it and painstakingly coaxed the pages into a manila folder that’d been inside a large coat pocket in his jacket. 

“What’re you going to do with all that?” Waylon questioned. “The film is damning enough, isn’t it?” 

“There’s power in paper, my apostle.” Miles said, trying to take on the wisest tone he could. “The pen is mightier than the sword, and documents are just as good as film. With all the photo manipulation and found-footage horror movies and shit nowadays, the documents just back up our story. It’s just good journalism.” 

“Oh.” Waylon shifted his shoulders uncomfortably, and lead them through another door. It was a long, painful white hallway, but when they opened the door at the end of it, a massive complex lay before them. Some kind of control room they were in now, and a central hub in the wide space that lay out there. There were some kinda spheres out there- Cracked glass, ruby red liquid, but occasionally clear and empty. Waylon knew it all very, very well, and a sudden overwhelming, sweeping feeling of queasiness and a nauseating cocktail of shitty emotions suddenly slammed into him like a truck. He had to lean on the nearest wall and cover his face with his hands, the sense of deja vu and the terrible, horrible knowledge of what’d happened this past month hitting him in full force. 

He’d been ripped away from his cushy job, made into a maniac’s bride, and brutally raped. The sob that left him was dry- He didn’t shed a tear, but his breathing was rough and ragged, broken gasps and whines that he couldn’t stop or control. 

“Fuck, Waylon, what’s the matter?” Miles was too close to him, too looming, and Waylon batted out a hand, ineffectually and weakly pushing his face away. 

“Miles. He’s been here for four weeks. A transgendered man in this hell-pit, Eddie Gluskin’s bride. If you were in the same position…” Boone’s voice trailed off, angry at Miles’ lapse in sensitivity. The journalist shrugged, uncertain why Boone was being so prickly and Waylon so… Emotional. The matter of fact was, he just couldn’t imagine himself in that scenario, couldn’t imagine what Waylon had gone through. His experience with hell on earth was bad, fucking horrible and traumatizing, sure, but it wasn’t a _month_ of hell, but less than a single, solitary day. Waylon’d lived this shit for- Miles would’ve done the math to figure out how many hours, but, as stated before, he was fucking awful at it. The nearest he could figure, Waylon’d been here hundreds of fucking hours, maybe a thousand by now, compared to Miles’ measly twenty-four. 

He could kind of get it.

“Guys- Don’t worry about it.” Waylon let out a watery, weak chuckle, pushing off the wall and stumbling towards the computer. “Power’s dead, or I could try to shut the whole thing down. I think… I think we’ve got to kill him manually.” 

“Good. We got any sharp objects or something? Break that glass shit and just beat the fucker to death.” Miles puffed out his chest. “I mean. Boone beats the fucker to death, not you or me.” 

Boone gave him a sharp, furious glare, a crease in his nose and the furrow in his brows telling him his remark had been unnecessary.

“Ah, shit, I didn’t mean it’s ‘cos your black, Boone. Or because you’re crazy. It’s just, you’re better at violence than the rest of us.” Miles raised his palms defensively. 

Boone gave him a flat, unimpressed glare. “I’m used to it.” 

“Shit, don’t be like that, I didn’t mean-” Miles hurried to explain himself; let it be known, even moments before death, that Miles Upshur was absolutely, definitely not a racist. 

“Both of you, be quiet. I think we’re going to have to shut off his life support-” 

“Why can’t we just crack that fishbowl and kill him?” Miles asked, exasperated.

“It’s bulletproof glass, so unless you have a gun, several rounds, and really good aim, we’re going to have to do the indirect approach.” Waylon moved away from the computer and keyboard, shaking his head. “It’s got to be unplugging him from life support.” 

“And he’s just gonna let us do that, is he? Sit there and let us kill him? The host’s gonna fucking murder us.” Miles voiced nervously, shifting from foot to foot.

“I propose we split up.” Boone’s voice was oddly soft. “There’s a failsafe, there.” He nods towards the panel in the center of the main hub, where there’s a place for a hand to press. “And those two-” He points, left and right, “- Have to be for his life support. Two of us go and disable the support, while the third stays behind and triggers the failsafe.” 

Waylon shifted anxiously. “Who’s going to stay behind? What if one of us- What if one of us get killed before we can disable it?” 

“Then those who survive will have to do it. This is the fastest and most efficient way, and it’s not as if it’s Trager, or Walker. We can’t fight this thing.” Boone’s jaw clenched. His eyelid twitched, some kind of tick, and he shook his head, trying to breathe. “And this way, it can’t chase all of us at once. It can only go after one person at a time, which means at least two-thirds of us will be able to get our jobs done.” 

Miles swallowed nervously, shifting from foot to foot. “So, who goes where?” 

“I’ll take one of the rooms.” Boone’s head tipped to the left. “In there.” 

“I, I guess I’ll take the other one, then.” Waylon nods, anxiously. 

“Then I’m the failsafer, I guess.” 

“I get the feeling we don’t have much longer before the Walrider decides to try and attack us, so we all go, on the count of three, alright?” 

Miles’ nostrils flared, and he nodded. “Okay. Okay. Nobody better get killed, or I swear to God-” 

“We’re going to make it through this, Miles.” Waylon said, nudging his shoulder gently.

“Everyone ready?” Boone cut through their chatter, eyes rigidly focused on the door to his left. “Three.” 

“Two.” Miles muttered, tense.

“One.” Waylon breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this AN and chapter is dedicated to the guy who commented a couple days before the chapter posted. to you, my man, I just gotta say: 
> 
> shut the fuck up. if you don't like my inconsistent posting, then fuck off and find a regularly updating fic. I'm up to my fuckin' ass in finals, quit being an entitled baby.


	25. Crown of Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Go get Boone, you fffucking-” Miles shook his head, gritting his teeth. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but he couldn’t. 
> 
> “Okay, okay.” Waylon got up, raced towards the door Boone had gone through, and left the agonized man on the cold floor.
> 
> All alone.

“Have you, in the past week, consumed any alcohol?” 

“No.”

“You’re positive?” 

“I haven’t done any drinking.” 

“Alright. Have you drunk any alcohol in the past three months? Particularly absinthe.” 

“I haven’t. I’ve been sober my whole life.” 

The doctor peered at him, light glinting off the lenses of his spectacles. His face looked doubtful, a frown on his face and a certain look in his eye.

“Mr. Mobley.” The doctor said mildly. “There’s no reason to lie to me, I’m trying to help you.” 

“I haven’t.” Gritted teeth, fingers clamping around the arms of the chair. The doctor’s words all but confirmed what he’d been casually implying: _Every black man has had alcohol, hasn’t he? If one says they haven’t, they’re a liar._ “I’m straight sober, doctor.” 

“If you say so.” The man said dubiously. “Any marijuana usage in the past three months?” 

“No.” 

“Cocaine usage in the past three months?” 

“I’ve used none.” 

“Have you ever used either drug?” 

“No, I haven’t.” 

“None at all?” The doctor’s frown deepened. “If you say so. Do you have any history with PCP, amphetamines?” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“Do you take any prescription medications?” 

“No.” 

“Non-prescription medications?” 

“Only when I can’t sleep at night. Don’t do it on the reg, though.” 

The doctor scribbled something on his clipboard, pausing musingly. “You’ve heard these- Whispers, had these hallucinations, for how long, exactly?” 

“Ever since I can remember.” Boone muttered. “It used to be just hearing things, having the occasional- Paranoid- thought. It’s been getting worse.” 

The doctor frowned, tapping his chin with his pen. His eyes dropped to the paper, and he thought he heard him mumble, “You’re crazy.” 

“Excuse me?” 

The doctor tilted his head. “I didn’t say anything.” 

Boone looked at him critically. He looked honest, possibly even curious. Boone’s heart sped up, and he nervously wondered if he’d just been imagining the doctor’s hostility, the same way he’d imagined the professor’s, the same way he’d imagined Tellers’. 

“Mr. Mobley, I believe you have a schizophrenia spectrum disorder.” The doctor leaned back, sighed. “Paranoid schizophrenia. I’m not entirely certain, but you have no other history of mental illness or substance abuse, and it’s the most likely reason for your auditory and visual hallucinations, as well as the feeling that everyone is out to get you.” 

“You’re saying I’m crazy.” It hadn’t quite sunk in. Reality hadn’t quite set its teeth into Boone yet. He tried to feel something, anything- Relief that he knew what was wrong with him, fear since he’d just been labeled as schizophrenic, angry at the world for the diagnosis, glad the doctor had decided to finally help him, but he just felt… Nothing. 

“Not crazy. Schizophrenic. Now, with how to treat schizophrenia, there are a multitude of options for you to choose from. I do know something that would seriously help you, an asylum in Colorado, called Mount Massive. It can do some serious good for a person like you, and would prevent you from having any more... Violent outbursts. I can tell you more if you’re interested…” 

Boone wished he had said no.

But God help him, like a foolhardy, trusting idiot, he had said _yes._

-

“One!” 

Boone was out of there like a shot, feet slapping against the metal floor, zipping past the man in the pod and determinedly scrambling up stairs. He wasn’t sure what, exactly, he’d find at the top, but he assumed some kind of power source. Waylon swerved right, Miles remained at his spot at the failsafe, eyes nervously darting.

Boone didn’t pay them too much heed. He was through a door, scrambling over top barrels, into a tall, circular room. He didn’t even stop to look around- He raced for the stairs, scrambled up. Breaths rattled in his chest, frantic, the pulsing beating of his heart filling his ears. Soft humming came to his ears, and he told himself it was schizophrenia, that something wasn’t breathing down his neck and making those sounds. He swore he felt breath on his neck, but it was just a hallucination, just a hallucination, just a hallucination- 

He flung himself haphazardly over a gap- Too far to land on his feet, but his hands caught on the walkway and the railing. He dangled, precariously. The drop was far enough to kill him, leave him broken and battered like an unwanted toy, so he ferociously squirmed and clawed against the ruined walkway, trying to get up. He feverishly thanked God for the fact that he knew how to a pull-up, got up, and made the mistake of looking back into the yawning void he’d just crawled himself out of. 

The smoky, cloudy swarm glided upwards. Boone thought he could see outreaching talons, a facial structure in it, but couldn’t be sure if it was the actual creature, or if it was just a hallucination. Didn’t matter. He couldn’t let it catch him, couldn’t let it catch him. He raced through a dark portion of the Asylum, feet splashing through a puddle of wet blood, and he stumbled over what must’ve been a corpse, but it didn’t matter, because he was so close, he could feel it. 

He stepped into what looked suspiciously like an airlock, and the Walrider formed on the other side of the glass. He thought nails raked against the smooth surface, heard the sound, but saw nothing. He clapped his hands against his ears as flickering static moved across his vision, a bubbling swirl like fucked up rorschach tests, pulsing and undulating. It took a moment, but it all faded, it all disappeared, leaving Boone shaking on the airlock floor.

How long had it been? Oh, God, Waylon and Miles. He hoped he hadn’t been cringing on the floor for very long, they both could very well be dead- It made his stomach twist into knots, nervousness. 

He jogged out of the little airlock, into a small, dimly lit room. There were a couple tables, a couple computers, but he found what he was looking for. 

Wires. Whatever was here, it was on and it was important. He started yanking things at random, raising a hand to protect his eyes from the sparks. One wire, two wire, three wire. Grim satisfaction bubbled in his chest, and he could only hope that the rest of them had done their duties, too. 

-

Waylon turned the valve sharply, giving a soft, delighted inhalation when it gave under his hands without resistance. Everything was going as planned, thank God. With any luck, Boone would be done with his part, too, and Miles would activate the failsafe, then, God, they could go home. Finally, finally, get out of this actual hell. 

Something surprisingly solid slammed into him from behind, and he flipped awkwardly over the railing, giving a sharp, fearful yelp as he plummeted to the ground- The fall wasn’t that far or hard, but it hurt. It took him a second, to blink through tears and gasp for air. His ribs hurt, but he didn’t think they’d been seriously damaged or broken. Just hurt, knocked the breath from him. 

He got on his hands and knees and tried to scramble to his feet before the Walrider could attack him again, and a niggling little voice told him that if it hadn’t managed to throw him over the edge of the safety railing, it would’ve ripped him apart from the inside out, sending limbs and organs raining down and blood spattering in every direction. The thought was numbing, chilling, and he staggered to his feet as quickly as he could, trying to suck in a breath and get back to the main Morphogenic Engine chamber. His eyes were blurred with tears of pain, his entire side throbbed, but he blinked the tears away, and continued running along. He could still breathe, he could still run, pain didn’t matter so long as he got out of this alive. 

He paused, to look back, and a small little part of him spared the time to be amused when he saw the Walrider gliding quietly along down the stairs, rather than simply floating over the ledge to chase him. That part was quickly squashed when it zipped towards him at an unnatural speed, and Waylon forced his legs to keep moving. The injury in his calf, where he’d fallen down the elevator so long ago complained from the strain, but fear was the greatest motivator to ignore all kinds of pain. 

He burst out into the main room, where Miles paced antsily in front of the main console. “Boone hasn’t done his job yet,” The journalist snarled the second he spotted Waylon. He was nervous, scared, and Waylon didn’t exactly blame him. He was feeling jumpier than a grasshopper himself. He caught himself frequently turning his head to see if the Walrider was coming after him, but it apparently hadn’t decided to chase him for very long, since it didn’t follow him into the main room. 

“What’s taking him so long?” Miles spat, gazing anxiously at the door Boone had disappeared through. His eyes darted, he shifted from foot to foot, anger and fear clouding his face. “What in the absolute fuck can be more important that he’s strolling about with his thumb up his ass instead of fucking helping us kill this fuckhead?” Miles slammed his foot against the glass containing the host for emphasis, cursing softly when it did nothing but hurt his toes. 

“Miles- Miles, he did it!” Waylon gestured towards the panel, which now was lit with a glow. Miles, with all the talent of a seasoned slapjack player, immediately slammed his hand against it. He gave a whoop of sheer, unadulterated joy, riding high on adrenaline and drunk on the giddiness of his newfound safety. 

Warnings flared on the monitors, flashing red. Waylon’s eyes turned from them to the man in the pod- He realized, for a sudden, horrible moment, that he didn’t even know the name of the man that he had just helped murder. The man writhed inside it, and although he couldn’t scream, Waylon imagined that he was desperately trying. Blood clouded the water, emanating out from his chest, and Waylon watched, numbly, as his struggles grew more violent, more animalistic. The man’s chest was shaking and undulating in the pinkening liquid, desperately trying to heave for breath, despite the fact that there wasn’t any air to breathe.

Waylon started when Miles was suddenly hit from behind- the Walrider’s cloudy, skeletal form slammed Miles bodily into the glass. Waylon realized, with a sense of horror, the Walrider was trying to break the glass, trying to free the host so the man within could breathe sweet, life-sustaining oxygen again. Miles let out a strangled, agonized cry, as he was jerked like a child’s plaything and slammed against the glass once more. Waylon could hear the snaps, his ribs and whatever else was in his torso breaking. After two hits, the Walrider let go, writhing ferociously, kicking and struggling and clawing at its own throat. Miles slumped to the ground brokenly, and the Walrider’s desperate thrashes grew more frantic, more desperate. The things making up the solid mass was coming apart- the tiny little spots that made up the cloud, those nanobytes starting to separate out like sand swept up in a storm-

The Walrider exploded, as best as Waylon could put it. It broke into individual nanobytes, scattering around the room, no longer solid, and the poor man in the glass pod finally sagged in the liquid, stopped his struggles, and the water completely clouded over, a solid, bloody ruby-red. 

Waylon took a few seconds to look at the pod, look at the man within, realizing that he was now a killer, he’d taken a human life, even if it was in self defense… He’d taken the life of a poor, psychotic man, who may have not even been aware of what he was doing. A victim just as much as the rest of them were.

He couldn’t take too long to dwell on it. Miles lay prone, on his stomach, in front of the pod, and since he was still alive, could still be saved, Waylon turned his attention to him. 

“Miles. Miles, you okay?” Waylon kneeled next to him, lifting up his chin and trying to look into his eyes. “Are- That looked brutal, Miles, are you okay?” 

“Hurt like fuck. Can’t breathe, Way.” Miles gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. “Can’t, no fucking way, I’m gonna make it back, to the elevator, to the jeep, fuck…” 

“Miles, it’s over. Miles, we won, we won, please, you can’t give up now, come on!” Both men were tearing up, Waylon with fear that Miles was going to die, Miles from pain. “I’ll help you, fuck, I’ll carry you if I have to-” 

“You’re a little wimp and you know it. You couldn’t… Couldn’t drag me ten feet. Can’t get me to my car.” He shook his head. “Boone- Need Boone. He can carry, carry, if we’ve gotta…” 

“It’s okay, Miles, it’s okay.” Waylon rubbed his back, comfortingly, bit his lip. “I’ll go get him, are you gonna be alright on your own…?” 

“Rider’s dead.” Miles wheezed softly. “Not in any danger. Go get ‘m.” 

“Okay, okay, we’re going to get you help, Miles-” 

“Stop standin’ ‘roun’, Way!” Miles snarled at him, a glare making its way under the agony on his face. “Unnhh, help, move me on my back, first, feels like my ches’ on fire-” Waylon tenderly helped the man onto his back, and Miles let out several long groans of pain, twitching in his agony, head rocking back and forth in a futile effort to distract himself or relieve himself of the hurting in his torso. 

“I don’t think your ribs punctured anything, ‘cos you’re not bleeding from the mouth- I think, I think they’re just fractured, not snapped-” 

“Go get Boone, you fffucking-” Miles shook his head, gritting his teeth. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but he couldn’t. 

“Okay, okay.” Waylon got up, raced towards the door Boone had gone through, and left the agonized man on the cold floor.

All alone. 

-

Boone went slowly down the stairs, one step at a time, concentrating on not tumbling down them. Every step was measured, careful, deliberate. He could hear whispers, telling him he was going to fall, break his neck, die, die, die. After all his effort, after killing the greatest threat he’d ever known, the Walrider, he would slip due to the blood soaking into the underside of his feet, die, without even knowing if Waylon or Miles had made it out okay.

He clung to the railing with both hands, slow, raspy breaths leaving him. He was so goddamned tired. So much running, so much work to do, and although the bulk of the work was done, he still had to get back, still had to get home, or else, somewhere safe. 

“Boone?” Waylon’s voice rang from down below, and he gave a grunt of affirmation. 

“Is it dead?” He asked, slowly making his way down the last flight. Safe. Safe, safe. The humming he’d been hearing was diminishing, the accusatory whispers settling into vague, faint snarls. “Waylon?” 

“It, the host, he’s dead. The Walrider- It, uhm, it kinda exploded.” Waylon let out a shaky, wheezy laugh, and ascended the first stair. “Miles is hurt, but he’s not hurt that badly. I don’t want to push you, because we’re all tired, but- I don’t think he can walk like that. I mean, he can, but… His ribs are broken, he’s hurt bad. He’ll need our help to get back to the Jeep.” 

Boone let a slow, watery smile come across his face, finally letting that mask of stoicism crumble. He shook his head, letting out a loud, triumphant roar of laughter. He swept Waylon up in a hug, pressing his face into the crook between the man’s neck and shoulder, patted his back and crowed his- no, their- victory: 

“We did it, we did it, Waylon, we did it! You get to go home- We get to go home!” 

“I know, I know-” Waylon returned the hug, and a moment later let go, beaming at Boone. “Okay, come on! Let’s go get Miles, get back to the Jeep-” His broad smile, his delighted, relieved tone, it was infectious, and Boone found himself grinning too as Waylon led him out of the room by the hand.

Miles lay stretched out on the ground, motionless and silent. 

Eddie Gluskin stood over him, freshly blooded knife dripping, having just slit the journalist’s throat. 

Waylon screamed, a sound of extreme anguish, of very real pain.

Boone stood there, numb. 

“Darling!” Eddie bellowed, face lighting up. He loped over towards Waylon, who stood there, his eyes wide and hollow with disbelief. He wordlessly, without any resistance, let Eddie Gluskin tear him away from Boone, let the psychopath hug him tightly, hold him, kiss his temple and grope the tech’s rear. 

Then Waylon screamed, and damn the fiery blond, he wrapped his hands around Eddie’s throat, thumbs digging into his windpipe with all the force he could exert. Boone heard him scream, a sound much louder than he ever thought a body that small could produce. He called Eddie a murderer, a rapist, a psychopath, tore into him with the fury of a bitterly grieving friend, all while the Groom stood there, Waylon trying to throttle the life out of him and shout him down for killing Miles. 

Boone only vaguely felt it when something like sand prickled his skin, tiny granules that rested over his fingertips, his wrists, his arms. He assumed it was a hallucination. 

Eddie ripped Waylon’s hands away from his throat, called him a whore, flung him aside like a used tissue, vengeance in his posture and murder in his eyes as he advanced on Boone. The knife glinted wickedly, a spot of rusty red dripping off the blade. 

“I’ll get rid of both these whores- They’re jealous, of you and me, of our love! I’ll kill them both, release you from their poison! You’ll go back to loving me, like you always have, and we’ll raise a beautiful family together!” His nostrils flared, and he took a step closer- malevolence, fury, it clouded his broken, bloody eyes. 

“Eddie, you can’t, Eddie!” Waylon scrambled back onto his feet, grabbing Gluskin’s knife arm. Eddie turned sharply, and punched Waylon solidly in the face, making him stagger, shout, and clutch his nose.

“You be quiet, darling! You’re under their influence- They’ve wormed their way under your skin, they want to separate us- But don’t worry, darling, I’ll end this once and for all.” 

Boone could swear it all went in slow motion. 

Waylon lunged at Eddie’s legs. 

Eddie’s knife swung, spattering the congregated droplets of Miles’ blood everywhere. 

The blade ripped into Boone’s skin, breaking through his flesh, catching in a rib, staying there. 

Eddie was thrown off balance due to Waylon’s tackle, and he fell, landing with a hard thump. 

The knife slid awkwardly out of Boone’s body, still in Eddie’s grip. 

Pain bloomed in Boone’s chest, and initially, it felt like he’d been punched, then the sharpness of the blade suddenly kicked in, and he couldn’t hold on to the scream. 

Eddie turned the knife on Waylon. 

Waylon screamed. 

Blood sprayed, arterial, and the tech spasmed, crimson running down his dress, thrashing. His hands came over his throat, as he tried to staunch the flow, but it was a case of too little, too late.

Eddie ignored him, got up, charged at Boone again, knife readied, a snarl on his lips and unholy, inhuman rage in every detail of his face. His eyes glinted like a madman, and things sharpened, in a sudden clarity. Stitches on his homemade vest, the scabbing growth on his face, the veins in his powerful, muscled arms.

Rorschach tests. 

Blood. So much blood. Waylon’s, Miles’, deathblood, as one lay dead and the other bled out. 

Morphogenic Engine.

The Walrider. 

The Walrider- Not just a separate entity, not just its own creature. An amalgamation, that used to be composed of the robots and Billy Hope.

Now it was the robots and Boone Mobley. 

A symbiotic relationship. 

Eddie didn’t realize the impending danger until a ghostly cloud of nanobytes grabbed him, lifted him off the ground. Boone imagined this was Murkoff, imagined that Eddie could serve petinence for killing Miles, for leaving Waylon to die in the floor in favor of murdering Boone, in his death.

Boone tore the man in two. Blood sprayed, messy- so much blood- everywhere, organs and limbs raining like water droplets. The bubbling gunk of grey, the swirling tests and blobs, swarmed over his vision, the Morphogenic Engine aftereffects, as he viewed the gore, with a cold, quiet disinterest. 

He realized, gazing at the three corpses that lay in various states of injury, that he couldn’t leave anymore.

He was the Walrider. A cloudy swarm of death-delivery, a deity, and he could no longer think about just Boone Mobley. 

He had his congregation to attend to now.

But… 

There had to be a way out. 

There was always a way out.

Unless there wasn’t this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c:


End file.
